Move Over Mary Sue
by CyberKath
Summary: What happens when a normal mortal woman meets Immortal hunk Duncan MacLeod at Joe's bar. I intended this to be a satire, but it took on a life of its own - as stories are inclined to do - and it ended up quite another species entirely.
1. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 1

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

So in this story, I set out to write a character who was me - not an idealized version, like these alleged Mary Sues - but a clone with my reactions, my tastes and a few bits of my background. A character who would act like me (or a good many other ordinary women) upon meeting Duncan MacLeod, Immortal hunk!

As I said, previously - and as the first part of the story indicates - I intended it to be a satire, but it took on a life of its own - as stories are inclined to do - and it ended up quite another species entirely.

This story was also an exercise to see if I could write in the first person/present tense (not an easy task - for me anyway). I meant only to share it with a few friends, but I decided to send it to the Duncan Flag Wavers faction of HIGHLA-L, and it got such a favorable reaction that I decided to offer it here as well.

I hope you enjoy the story and if you do, I'd love to hear your comments. 

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 1

_Of all the gin joints in all the world, he had to walk into mine._

Okay, okay - so it's not an exact quote, sue me. It's not even my gin joint. 

The gin joint belongs to some guy named, Joe - unless of course there is no Joe, like there is no Sara Lee making the cheesecakes. It's not even my regular hang out. Dara and Lisa dragged me down here because they were in the mood to hear some Blues, and we'd heard this was the place to do it. But let's get back to the guy who just walked in the door - talk about a hunk and a half! Bogie had style; he had panache, but he didn't have much in the looks department. This guy has all of the above, plus stupendous looks, and the deadly grace of a panther as he saunters toward the bar. I hear fingers snap. The chorus starts up, and that song from the musical Sweet Charity fills my head. _The minute you walked in the joint, I could see you were a man of distinction._ Ah yes, a man of distinction - this is him all right.

Oh, jeeze - he's coming this way! Please, brain - if he talks to me, don't turn to mush. Dazzle him with brilliance and witty repartee. And whatever you do, don't let me blither.

I glance over my shoulder at Dara and Lisa. They're sitting at a table across the room, pointing and gesturing wildly. Of course, I see him - do they think I'm blind. I hope they don't get too thirsty waiting for me to come back with the beers, 'cause I'm glued to this spot. I'm not movin' as long I can feast my eyes on Mr. Gorgeous up close and personal.

Brushing my arm, he edges into the small space next to me. He's got long dark hair, pulled back into a very sexy ponytail - I love a guy who's man enough to wear his hair long. Black coat, black jeans, black t-shirt all add to his mystique. He smiles as he sweeps a glance around the bar. A slow sliding smile that's to die for. Right now, I'm hoping the band doesn't take a break because everyone in the joint will hear the Ginger Baker drum solo my heart is performing on my ribs. I think I'd win a battle of the bands hands down.

Pain suddenly shoots up my leg from the vicinity of my right foot. I gasp, and he turns at the sound.

"Did you say something?" he asks in a dark chocolate voice.

As I work through the pain, my brain registers the trace of an intriguing accent. "Ah ... no," I manage, "but could you move your foot. It seems to have landed in the same place as mine." I work up a smile. "And mine was there first."

He recoils, lifting the offending foot. His sinfully delicious brown eyes fill with sincere apology. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says, reaching out to touch my arm. 

Warm tingles dance up and down from my wrist to my shoulder. I don't think my legs will hold. A smile is all I can manage.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks.

Well, I can't tell him my big toe is mostly numb, the other toes have vanished and I think my metatarsal bone is broken in three places. 

"I'll live," I say, smiling. "It's not like I've got only one. And the broken bones will heal in no time ... though I may never dance Swan Lake, again. But, you know how it is - that ballet life was getting old anyway. Perhaps, it's time for a new career."

An odd, but fleeting expression stirs his shaggy dark brows as it crinkles the tiny lines between them. I'm blithering, I just know it. He thinks I'm an idiot. The look fades as the sunlight of his smile slides out from behind the passing cloud. A soft chuckle bubbles up from deep within his well-muscled chest. My hand itches to touch those nicely sculpted ridges, but I stuff it into the pocket of my jeans to keep it out of trouble.

Then it dawns on me - I said something funny! Hey Dara ... Lisa - eat your hearts out - I said something funny, and Mr. Gorgeous laughed. "Let me buy you a drink to make up for it," he says. That smile sends heat-seeking spirals rocketing around inside my body.

_Say yes_, my brain screams. "Thanks, but I'm-ah ... I'm with friends," I answer. Dumb! Dumb! I couldn't have said that. I suspect, Dara and Lisa transported those words into my mouth.

He turns his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. I follow the direction of his glance and can see their smug smiles from here. They want me to share. They wave - I scowl. He catches me and lifts one of those naughty eyebrows slightly. I turn the scowl into a smile.

"Those your friends?" he asks nodding at the pair.

"Mmm," I say, but it comes out sounding faintly like a snarl. At that precise moment the bartender returns to plunk three bottles of Bass Ale down in front of me. 

"That'll be $9.75," he says. 

Before I can move my hand to the small purse dangling from my left shoulder, Mr. Gorgeous whips a twenty out of thin air. He holds it folded lengthwise between two fingers and extends it toward the bartender.

"I've got that," he says, checking the labels on the bottles with glimmer of approval in his eyes.

His accent sounds European, I'm thinking British, maybe ... or Scottish. Probably thinks American beer is inferior. I bristle slightly at the imagined putdown, but in the end I'm quite glad we prefer Bass to Bud.

"And I'll have a single malt, please," he says. 

He turns to smile at me again, and my brain turns to creamed spinach. I can't think of a single thing to say. I hate when that happens.

The bartender returns with his drink and his change. "Is Joe around?" he asks as he drops a few singles on the bar for a tip.

"He left about an hour ago," the bartender answers with a shrug.

Oh rats - his friend isn't here, so he'll drink his drink, then leave. I hold back the sigh of disappointment as I wrap my fingers around the cold slippery bottle necks. 

"Here, let me help you with that," he says, taking two of the three in his. He has great hands - strong hands with fingers that are a perfect length - not too long, not too short. _Just right,_ as Goldilocks would say. He starts to walk toward our table, then he pauses waiting for me to snap out of my trance.

What can I do? He leads; I follow. "So there really is a Joe," I say.

"Pardon?"

"Joe ... there really is a person called Joe. I mean it's not like Sara Lee, Betty Crocker or Mrs. Paul. There really is a Joe behind _Joe's._" I'm blithering again. I bite my tongue to stop it from wandering aimlessly.

He smiles and I'm nearly blinded by the brilliant display of teeth. Gad, what a great smile. This guy can't be real. I bite my tongue again to make sure I'm not dreaming. I hurts, but I wonder if you bite your tongue in a dream, doesn't it still hurt?

Dara and Lisa sit motionless as we approach. Their mouths hang open wide enough to drive a tractor trailer truck through. I smirk. They look utterly charming. At least I don't have to worry about competition from Dumb and Dumber - not for the moment anyway.

"This is Dara and Lisa," I begin my introductions with a smug smile for their benefit. I - Kate, manhunter extraordinaire - have brought home the biggest prize in the bar, and don't you forget it, ladies. Won't this trophy look just grand hanging over my headboard ... er, I mean mantel?

Mr. Gorgeous sets the bottles down on the table, then he swabs the moisture off his hand with a swipe over his sleeve. He reaches out to shake hands with my erstwhile friends. They should be grateful for my generosity. You do _not_ introduce a guy like this to female friends until you've got a ring on your finger and one through his nose, as well. Unless of course, they are lesbians and/or truly ugly. Dara and Lisa don't fall into either category. They've managed to transform the truck tunnels they were using for mouths into brilliant smiles. The light is so blinding I can't tell if they are batting their eyelashes at him. Please, someone assure me they are not batting their eyelashes at him.

There is a lull in the simpering noises they have been making, and I suddenly realize that everyone is waiting for me to finish the introductions. _Houston, we have a problem_ - I'm missing some very important information - like his name. I could just introduce him as Mr. Gorgeous, but that would be tipping my hand. I can't let him know I'm in cardiac arrest and have already named our first child between palpitations.

"This is--" I turn to him, hoping he will fill in the blank.

"Duncan MacLeod," he says, riding to my rescue as he tries to extract his hand from Lisa's death grip. He will need the _jaws of life_ if he ever hopes to see his fingers again.

I pin Lisa with a laser beam stare, and she releases his hand before I have to call in the swat team and the hostage negotiators. He turns and extends his hand to me. He smiles. Oh please - not the smile, that's not fair. I'm no match for the equatorial heat of that smile. The limp noodles I used to consider legs fail. _I'm mel-ting!_ Like the Witch in the Wizard of Oz, I dissolve into a puddle of goo at his feet.

"Kate," I say in the most amazingly steady voice considering the liquefied state of every other square inch of my body. I glance around. Who said that? It certainly wasn't me - I'm not here. Having lost possession of my body, I'm floating somewhere in space.

"Kate Halloran," the disembodied voice continues. It sounds vaguely like my voice. Yes! It is. It is my voice! Thank you - oh Great High Protector of not-so-innocent women who find themselves in the presence of the most gorgeous man who ever lived. You say you want a human sacrifice? I can do that. 

I eye Dara and Lisa who are ogling Duncan MacLeod in a bold and most unbecoming manner. I have two candidates. Does it matter if they're not virgins?

My hand is suddenly cold, and I realize that he has withdrawn his. I sigh. Bring that back. I want it - it's mine. That lovely hand felt so nice and toasty in mine, and I didn't even get to enjoy it because I wasn't sufficiently recovered from the nuclear meltdown. He pulls out the two unoccupied chairs from the table, and he waits.

Oh, heh-heh - he's waiting for me. I'm expected to actually do something - like sit down. I sit - not an easy task when your leg muscles have abandoned ship. Actually, I sort of drop into the chair and hope he doesn't notice the lack of grace in the action.

Dara and Lisa commence talking at once. They jabber on and I haven't the vaguest idea what they are saying. They could be inviting him to go along with them to Timbuktu. They could be telling him I'm an alien invader from the planet Mungo. Deciphering their gibberish requires too much concentration and mine is otherwise occupied.

The bar is crowded and the tables have barely a chair's breadth between them, so Duncan and I are sitting very close to each other. In fact, his arm is touching mine from shoulder to elbow. We're soldered together. Joined like Siamese twins - and I want to keep it that way. Every now and then he turns to me and smiles, starting the melting process anew each time. Off in a distance, I hear a voice that sounds like mine. I hope it's not saying anything I wouldn't say - unless it's outstandingly brilliant, of course.

Time passes quickly in the far reaches of space, and suddenly everyone is standing. The music has stopped and the lights have been turned up. Oh, don't do this to me. I'm not ready to leave this halcyon spot. This Shangri La. This Eden. I may never get to sit next to such perfection again - not in this lifetime, anyway.

He is looking at me and his lips are moving. I shake my head to wake my ears up. 

"I'd like to see you again," he is saying. 

Huh? See me? Again? I stand so I can hear him better.

"Maybe we could have dinner, sometime," he says.

"I'd love to," says that stranger with my voice. How can she remain so calm while he is looking at her with those melt-in-your-mouth chocolate eyes? The strange woman reaches into my purse. Her hands don't even quiver as she extracts one of my business cards and passes it to him. "Call me," she says. 

He smiles back. "I will."


	2. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 2

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 2

_I'll call you._ Famous last words. It's a week later and you guessed it - he didn't.

Why do men say that when they don't really mean it? Perhaps, they attach the same sincerity to that phrase as everyone does to, "how are you?" It's just a reflex action. Something polite to say when you can't think of anything else.

I sigh as I push away from my desk to get some fresh coffee. I've vowed more times than I care to remember not to wait by the phone for a guy to call, but I did just that all week. 

I told Dara and Lisa I felt a cold coming on, so I could stay home Friday night, and I turned down a date with that nice guy Jack I met at the computer conference two weeks ago. I know I'm pathetic, but I couldn't I help it - Duncan MacLeod is not just any guy. I recall the haze of our meeting with a tingle, and I concede that he merited a little waiting. But I waited a week and this is Monday morning. I'm back to reality. I should have known a guy like him wouldn't call me. 

I'm no slouch, but I'm no raving beauty either. Most of the guys who _do_ call me fall into the same category, though I seem to attract more than my fair share of geeks and nerds as well. Persistent nerds and geeks. Must be my stellar personality.

The usual Monday morning gathering around the coffee machine parts like a bad hairdo as I approach. They don't want to get caught in idle chit-chat while the boss is in audio range. They don't know it, but they're safe from my wrath this morning. All I want is more coffee to wash away the bitter taste of a lost week and a deflated ego. I smile encouragingly, and they resume their chatter with watchful glances as I reach for the pot. 

Why do I do this to myself? Why can't I fall for one of the nice, but average guys who talk to me in bars, or who sit next to me at business conferences, or who ask me to help them pick out a cantaloupe in the produce section of the supermarket? 

And what is it with men anyway? Why do they just assume that all women are born knowing how to pick out fruit ... and how to type?

I've got an average life - maybe above average in some respects. I've worked hard enough to move up to customer service manager at the mail order company where I've worked since Dara and I migrated west after college. My customer service reps tell me I'm a decent boss, and the VP of marketing thinks I'm brilliant - most of the time, anyway. I've got a small, but nice condo in a middle class building, and I recently bought a new Mitsubishi Eclipse. So why am I not satisfied with my life?

I crave adventure, that's why. Yet I'm too comfy under my security blanket to go for the gusto. Not brave enough to reach beyond safety for the brass ring. I need a guy with a hint of danger simmering under the surface to push me off this platform of complacency. I need a guy like Duncan MacLeod.

"Did you have a good weekend, Kate?" Sherry asks.

"It was okay," I lie. I'm not going to tell them I sat home waiting for Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous - Mr. Man of My Dreams to call - but he didn't.

"Well, I met someone. Someone special," Robin gushes, her eyes wide with glee over this treasure. Robin is barely twenty. She meets someone special _every_ weekend. The others groan.

"Honey, you think everyone with a Y chromosome is special," Kala says. 

Kala's one of three supervisors who work for me. She catches my attention with a tilt of her head. It's time to get the troops back to work. I nod and return to my office. She can wear the black hat for a change. I'm not in the mood.

Faced with a fat stack of folders filled with problems that require an executive decision, and a budget that needs trimming, I can't keep my mind off Duncan MacLeod. There was something exciting about the man ... something that went beyond those darkly handsome looks. I stare out the window as I tried to pin it down, but it eludes me.

"Is there something you're not telling me about?" Kala asks from the doorway. 

She's startled me out of my reverie and I bang my knee on the open desk drawer as I spin my chair around. "Don't sneak up on me like that," I scold, rubbing the bruise. Just what I need another black and blue mark.

"Girl, you got a new man in your life? You keepin' him secret from me?" she asks, as she sashays into my office, then plops down in one of the chairs facing my desk.

Kala's the _Dear Abby_ of the office with an unhealthy dose of Cindy Adams thrown in for good measure. She knows everything about everybody, but she has a way of making you forget that fact when she tempts you into sharing confidences.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I insist. She can't possibly know about Duncan MacLeod unless she's added mind-reading to her impressive list of people skills. "Is there a point to this? I've got work to do." I don't mean to sound so testy, but I can't seem to shake this funk.

"Oh no?" She taunts me with an evil grin, then snaps her fingers. 

At the sound, Robin curls around the doorway like a cat. She holds a clear glass vase of flowers before her. Six pink tiger lilies surrounded by baby's breath and lacy ferns sway gently as she walks over to set the vase on the corner of my desk with a ceremonial flourish.

"Then who sent those?" Kala finishes her mischief.

"I have no idea," I protest, reaching for the small white envelope, I assume contains a clue.

"Uh-huh," Kala says. She stands, then leans one hand on the desk as she cranes her neck to see the card.

I turn away from her prying eyes. Most of the men I know would send roses if they were inclined to send flowers. Red if they had no imagination - pink or yellow if they did. Perhaps carnations if they were broke or cheap. But tiger lilies were most unusual. I know no one who would send tiger lilies unless ...

My fingers tremble as I pull the card from the envelope. A neat scrawl forms words in black ink across the white cardstock. Two words - _Dinner? Wednesday?_ and initials - DM.

An annoying buzz erupts from the speaker on my phone. "Kate--" Jane's voice follows the buzz. Jane's the marketing department secretary - I don't rate one of my own. 

I touch the speaker button. "Is it important, Jane? I'm in a meeting," I lie for expediency. Kala snickers. I glare at her, but it has no effect. 

"There's a man asking for you on line three. He says his name is Duncan MacLeod ... he says it's personal, but if he's a salesman I'll get rid of him."

"No, that's all right Jane. I'll take it."

Kala and Robin look like they're about to put down roots. I shoo them away with a wave of my hand. "Don't you two have work to do?" 

Robin turns tail and scurries away. Kala crosses her arms over her ample chest. "No," she says with a toss of her head and an evil grin. "Nothing that won't wait for a bit."

"Well, find some," I say, with my finger poised over the flashing red light. No way I'm talking this call with her listening in. "Close the door on your way out ... and no eavesdropping."

She leaves grumbling about some people getting too big for their panty hose. The door shuts with a bang. I smile and pick up the phone, then turn toward the window because I know she will be listening at the door.

"Duncan," I say. "What I nice surprise!"

"Did you get the flowers?" he asks. 

His dark velvet voice sounds even better over the phone. I can concentrate on it without being distracted by his overpowering presence.

"Yes," I answer, reaching out to touch the tip of the closest lily. "How did you know I love tiger lilies?"

He laughs. The sound of it warms me like a crackling fire on a snowy evening. I savor the heat of it. "Lucky guess," he says. "So do you still want to have dinner with me?"

Silly question. Of course, I want to have dinner with him. I want more than dinner, but we won't go into that just yet. "I'd love to," I say, instead.

"Is Wednesday, okay?"

"Wednesday's fine."

"Do you like Chinese? A friend told me about a new Szechuan place in Chinatown. I've been wanting to try it."

"I love Chinese food - that would be great."

"Good ... I'll pick you up. Is six, okay for you?"

My natural caution kicks in. I don't know enough about this guy to trust him, and I'm not sure if I can trust my instincts under his spell. I think I may need an escape hatch - like my own car. Also, I'm not sure I want him to know where I live just yet. "Er ... I-ah ... maybe I could meet you there?"

He laughs again. I suspect he knows what I'm thinking. "Finding a place to park in Chinatown isn't easy. Are you sure you want to bother?"

He's right about the parking situation - and I hate parallel parking on city streets. I don't even like driving in the downtown traffic. I don't answer while I search for a solution.

"I could pick you up at your office," he offers.

A compromise of sorts. I suppose I can always take a cab if I have to, and the garage here is secure. "Okay, that will work," I answer.

"See you Wednesday," he says, then he hangs up, and my office seems suddenly cold.

I hear muffled sounds from the other side of the door. I hang up the phone, then circle around the desk as quietly as I can. I yank the door open, and find Kala picking up a pile of manila folders from the floor. "You said you wanted to see last year's complaint reports," she says with a smile. "You know how slippery these folders can be."

"Uh-huh, and you just happened to drop them right by my door." 

I scowl at her, but it does no good. She's an incurable snoop, but she's a lovable one as well. She's always there when someone needs a shoulder to cry on, and she makes soothing noises if you need to vent your anger over the injustices of the world. My scowl slides into a grin. I can't help it - I'm still humming from my conversation with Duncan.

"Do you want to go over them now?" she asks.

I step back to let her into the office. She's going to find out about Duncan sooner or later. I may as well tell her the story myself. 


	3. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 3

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 3

I sip warm fragrant tea and let the soothing murmur of conversation flow around me. The occasional clink of a glass tapping a plate punctuates the lyrical rhythm of spoken Chinese. The waiter's head bobs like a float on a wave, and he scribbles frantically on an oil-stained pad as Duncan gives him our order - in Chinese.

When the waiter scuttles back to the kitchen, I smile in amazement. "Where did you learn to speak Chinese?" I ask.

"In China," he answers with a mischievous grin. 

"Ask a silly question ... get a silly answer," I say. His grin is infectious, I can't help grinning back. Besides I feel a little foolish and definitely overwhelmed by his charm. I've been grinning like an idiot ever since he picked me up at the office an hour ago in a classic T-bird. "Do you speak the language well, or was that just _restaurant_ Chinese?"

He laughs softly as he unwraps a set of chopsticks. "I guess we'll find that out when he brings the food - won't we?"

I shudder. "I hope you didn't order anything with eels in it by mistake."

"You have something against eels?" he asks. His dark eyes reflect the light from a candle that flickers in a gold glass globe between us, and they gleam with a hint of mystery.

"Not if they stay far away from my plate," I reply.

He laughs again. It's such a delightful sound, I want to make him laugh all night. We stare into each other's eyes for a few delicious moments, then I break the spell. "What were you doing in China?" I ask.

He looks away and taps his chopstick on the table like a drumstick as he shifts his position on the padded bench seat. He shrugs. "The usual ... a little business ... a little sightseeing," he answers.

Long enough to learn Chinese? Interesting. "I always wanted to go to China," I say waiting for him to look at me again. He doesn't.

His glance brushes by me - not long enough to make eye contact. He smiles - an acceptable substitute. "Maybe you will someday. More tea?" he asks, holding up a stubby white ceramic pot brushed with pale blue splashes.

"Maybe," I answer, nodding assent to his question about the tea. What can I say that will draw him out? I sense a warm intelligent man behind those eyes, but his thoughts are shut up tight behind them. Does he have secrets to hide or is he just one of those very private people? My senses tell me the answer lies somewhere in between.

"So what kind of business brings a man to China?" I ask. 

He's not looking at me again. He shifts his position and he sweeps a glance around the small dining ro

om. He watches the other diners for a moment, then he watches his hands as he fumbles with the chopsticks. "I'm in antiques," he says softly. 

Okay, that could explain a trip to China, but I remember reading somewhere that the Chinese are very strict about what leaves their country. I suppose he may have been selling something rather than buying, but I'm not knowledgeable enough about either to judge whether his answer could be the truth. For the moment, I accept it as such. I have no real reason to suspect he would lie, but something is making him uncomfortable. He could be as jittery about first dates as I am, but I think there's more to it than that.

"That sounds more interesting than being a customer service manager," I say. He looks at me again, and he smiles. I savor the warm glow.

"If you don't like what you do, why don't you do something else?" he asks. Having shifted the conversational spotlight to me, he seems much more comfortable.

"It's not that I dislike it. It's okay most of the time. Quite frequently it's even rewarding when you solve a thorny problem or defuse a tense situation, but it's also frustrating. Some customers are not happy no matter what you do."

"That's true," he says, nodding.

We hit the conversational pause button as the waiter approaches. Keeping his hands tucked into the loose sleeves of his black silk jacket, except when he points out an error, the waiter directs his two minions as they place steaming plates before us. Duncan watches the dance of plates and hands carefully, commenting now and then in Chinese. The waiter bobs his head and laughs as one of Duncan's comments strikes him funny, then like a summer squall, the waiter and his assistants vanish as quickly as they arrived.

Silence settles over us as the enticing aroma of garlic, onions and exotic peppers mingles with the comforting scent of warm rice and reminds me how hungry I am. I remove the wrapper from my chopsticks, and whisper a small prayer that I will be able to manage them without dropping food in my lap. I can handle chopsticks. I've eaten with them before, but a quick glance at Duncan tells me that he's more comfortable with them than I am with a knife and fork. In fact, he looks as though he's been eating with them most of his life. More questions rise up to hammer at my brain, but I know I won't get the answers without digging, so I dig into my food instead.

"I didn't plan to be a customer service manager," I muse, breaking the silence.

He pauses for a sip of tea, and watches me over the rim of the white porcelain cup. One dark shaggy eyebrow lifts in a question, but he doesn't ask it. He waits for me to continue.

"I wanted to be an interior designer," I say. 

He picks up his chopsticks and deftly pinches up a piece of shrimp. "What stopped you?"

"Lack of talent," I say. "Well, that's not completely true. I had a flair for it, but most of my classmates at NYSID were so much better I knew I couldn't compete."

"NYSID?" he asks, apparently puzzled by the acronym. 

I always take it for granted that other people immediately know what I know, and for some odd reason I'm surprised when I find out they don't. 

"New York School of Interior Design," I explain. "I went there for a year before I discovered I wasn't going to be the next David Hicks. After that startling revelation, I realized that I would end up spending my entire career trying to fit Aunt Sophie's ratty old sofa into my brilliant design, or trying to convince the client it had to go. I figured that would get old fast, so I transferred to Rutgers and majored in business administration. It wasn't as exciting, but it was definitely a better fit."

"Maybe you shouldn't have given up so easily," he says.

I consider this for a moment. "I never thought of it as giving up," I say. "I think I just recognized my limitations. Of course, they had to jump up and whack me on the head, first."

He grins, and it gives me the impetus to continue. "At that point I accepted the reality that you can't always do what you want to do. I also wanted to be a ballerina and rock star ... and look where that got me." 

The grin evolves into a soft laugh, and I realize I could talk to this man all night. As I tell him how Dara and I decided we needed a bit of adventure after graduation, and I regale him with tales of our cross-country trip in an ancient VW microbus, I also realize that is precisely what I'm doing. Beyond smiles, nods and the occasional chuckle, he hasn't contributed much to the conversation.

I've learned through experience that most men like to talk about themselves. Give them the slightest bit of encouragement and they will endeavor to impress you with stories of their exciting - in their opinion, anyway - escapades. I knew, from the first moment, that Duncan MacLeod was unlike any other man, I've met before, but this reluctance to talk about himself has me wondering whether he has something to hide. A nefarious past, perhaps? Painful memories? Dastardly deeds? I'm both intrigued by the possibilities, and alarmed at the same time.

He seems so caring and kind, yet I know appearances can be deceiving. I've read that psychopathic killers can be utterly charming, and I wonder what I'm getting myself into. Sirens go off in my head, and red lights flash. They warn me to walk away before I get in too deep, but I can't. Aside from his outstanding physical attributes, Duncan MacLeod is a puzzle to be solved. A mystery I can't walk away from - I have to stick around and let the story unfold so I can learn the answers. 

"The city opera company is doing Carmen, Saturday night," he says, tearing me away from my musing. "I know someone who can get tickets. Would you like to go?"

It takes a few minutes for his question to penetrate to the thinking part of my brain. While I rambled through my reverie, I was mesmerized by the dusting of tiny black hairs visible in the gap his open shirt collar left below his throat. Opera? He said opera. I hate opera.

Even sitting next to Duncan, I don't think I could make it through two or three hours of Carmen unless I stuffed cotton in my ears. I'm not exactly sure how long an opera lasts, but even 10 minutes would be too long. I could mention that _I_ know someone who can get us tickets to the _Metallica_ concert at City Centre, but I suspect his reaction to that would be the same as mine is to opera. Maybe we could compromise and go to see the Seacouver Storm skate it out against the Las Vegas Thunder in the first round of the Turner Cup finals.

"Um, opera," I say smiling as I glance down at a small tangle of noodles and shrimp on my plate. I push them around with my chopsticks. "Opera is not high on my list of fun things to do." I smile to soften the blow. "I'd say it falls a little higher than having a cavity filled."

He rewards me with a soft chuckle. "I take it that means you don't like opera," he says.

"You got it," I say, hoping that liking opera is not a required qualification for a relationship with him. 

"What kind of music do you like?" he asks.

It's my turn to grin. "Heavy metal rock," I answer, just to tease him.

He groans and rolls his eyes.

"Actually, my taste in music is rather eclectic." I say. "I enjoy all kinds - except opera and that whiny kind of country and western, though the footstomping kind is okay in small doses."

He smiles. "How about classical music?" he asks. "I think they're doing Hayden at Symphony Hall this weekend."

"Hayden is good ... Fireworks music is one of my favorite pieces. Actually I have quite a few classical CDs in my collection, and I've also got some jazz ... a little New Age for a change of pace. I've even got a couple of Big Band CD's."

He lifts an eyebrow in surprise at that confession, but he makes no comment. I'm on a ramble now and there's no stopping me. He doesn't try.

"But mostly, I listen to rock," I continue. "And not just heavy metal. I like classic rock, southern rock, fusion, blues. If it's got a good beat and you can dance to it, I give it a five." 

My mother grew up watching American Bandstand, and that's the way she rates every song she hears. She's got me doing the same thing.

"You like to dance?" he asks, ignoring the Bandstand reference.

"I _live_ to dance," I answer. "Dancing falls much higher on my list of fun things to do, than opera does - that's for sure. Dancing's definitely in the top ten."

"Maybe we could go dancing some time, " he says.

The shock of finding a man who actually suggests dancing as a possible activity mingles with the realization that he's planning future dates. I can't stand it. I have this terrible urge to bounce up and down in my seat. I want to clap my hands and shout for joy, but the phrase, _what's wrong with this picture,_ echoes in my mind. 

Okay, he likes opera, so he's not perfect, but he's pretty damn close. So why don't I believe it? Why do I feel like I'm sitting under the sword of Damocles, and the damned thing looks like it's going to drop from the ceiling any minute? Either I'll find out the reality is not what I'm hoping for or I'll wake up from this lovely dream. One lesson I've learned well, is - if something seems too good to be true, it usually is. But for right now, I'm enjoying the trip, so I'll drift along and hope for the best.

The evening passes way too quickly from my point of view. After dinner, Duncan asks if I'd like to go to _Joe's_ for a nightcap. Sounds like a good idea ... anything to prolong our time together. Of course, I'll regret it when I have to get up for work in the morning, but what the hell, this guy is worth working through a day with mush for brains.

I get to meet Joe. He's a nice, personable kind of guy who plays a mean blues guitar. He has a decided limp and he uses a cane, but neither he nor Duncan supply an explanation, and it would be exceedingly rude to ask, so I don't. He also has an odd tattoo on his wrist - some sort of strange symbol, but I don't ask about that either. We chat for a bit about nothing in particular ... music in general, for the most part. Music seems to be the topic of the night.

The late hour and the exertion of holding my wits together in Duncan's staggering presence finally takes it's toll. I try not to yawn, but the urge is too powerful. Duncan smiles and apologizes for keeping me up so late on a week night. I protest, but it's a weak attempt, and we call it a night.

During the short drive back to my office, we drift into a companionable silence. Since I tend to chatter ceaselessly when I'm nervous, I always take it as a good sign, when I don't feel the need to fill every moment with conversation. Duncan seems comfortable with the silence as well.

He stops the T-bird behind my car, then gets out to walk me to it. I press the button on the remote and the alarm chirps in response. He reaches around me to open the door, and I stand with my back against the frame. Resting his arm along the top of the open door, he stares at his hand for a moment, then his chest rises as he inhales deeply.

"So are we on for Saturday night?" he asks.

"As long as we're not going to the opera," I answer, with a smile so as not to discourage him.

He laughs softly. "We can skip the opera. How about dinner and a movie?" 

"That's sounds good," I answer.

He leans over, slips his fingers into my hair, then he kisses me. A soft tender unthreatening kiss. One filled with promise and tasting faintly of Scotch whiskey. Like the evening it's over much sooner than I want it to be.

As our lips part, he drags his fingers along my cheek, and I realize that my hand has found a home on his chest. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin silk of his shirt, and I want to stand here connected like this forever. 

He covers my hand with his, then he lifts both to his mouth and he presses the pads of my fingers to his lips briefly while he gazes into my eyes. I'm drifting, floating in a warm sweet mist. If you were to ask me where I am, I'd have no clue.

"Good night," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

He steps back to let me climb into the car. I do so reluctantly. "Be careful driving home," he cautions.

"I will," I say. "I had a nice time tonight, Duncan ... thanks."

He smiles and tips his head as he lifts his shoulders in a quick shrug. "I'll call you about Saturday," he says.

I nod, then he shuts the door. He taps on the window and points to the door lock button. I push it, he nods, waves, then turns to walk back to his car. I watch him in the mirror as I turn the key in the ignition, and I have an odd sensation that I've stepped over a threshold and into a new world. And I wonder just what I've gotten myself into. 


	4. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 4

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 4

"So what's wrong with him?" Dara asks as she lifts a plump bacon cheeseburger dripping with fried onions and ketchup to her mouth.

Dara's been my best friend since high school, but right now I hate her. She's one of those people who can eat all she wants and she never gains an ounce. I stab my fork into chicken Caesar salad and sigh. It's quite tasty, but I'd rather have the cheeseburger.

"What's wrong with who?" I ask, though I know perfectly well who she's talking about.

"The guy you've abandoned your friends for. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous. That guy you've been mooning over for a month."

"His name is Duncan. And I never moon."

"Whatever," she says waving a pickle for emphasis. "You and I both know that no guy's as perfect as you keep telling us this guy is."

She's right, and I've been asking myself that same question every day since I met him. He's not perfect - I know that - no one is. Little imperfections I expect - I can deal with them. Perfection is boring, and Duncan MacLeod is hardly boring. Still there is something odd about him, something that I can't quite get a handle on. I've known him for a month, yet I know nothing about him at all. I know none of the little details people usually provide to sketch out their backgrounds.

"He doesn't talk about himself," I drop my current thoughts into the conversation.

"A guy who doesn't talk about himself? I don't believe it!"

"It's true. He's very intelligent and he seems to know something about everything. He can go on for hours about art, music, history, philosophy, but he never provides any of the usual details about himself. You know the family tidbits, the schools he went to, where he was born, when he was born - I don't even know how old he is."

Dara looks at me like I've just said something truly stupid. "Duh," she says. "Have you tried asking him?"

"Uh ... yes and no," I answer. It's easier to torture the lemon in my club soda with my straw than it is to meet her gaze at the moment. 

Dara's a _plow right through it_ sort of person. If she wants to know something she goes after it with single-minded ferocity. Me - I'm a _beat around the bush_ kind of person. I don't know why pointed questions make me skittish, but they do. I always answer a direct question with another question - _why_ is my usual question of choice. _Why do you want to know,_ I will ask. It's easy for me to sense when another person feels the same way, and Duncan MacLeod definitely fits in this category.

"Asking him questions is a little like trying to pick up mercury," I say.

Dara lifts one dark eyebrow into a quizzical angle. I guess she's never broken a thermometer. 

. 

"You can't touch mercury with your bare hands, it burns," I explain. "You have to scoop it up with something, but it's very slippery and it always wriggles away from you. If you're not careful, it might break into smaller pieces, and then you're chasing them as well. Duncan does the same thing whenever I ask him any direct question about himself or his background. He changes the subject, or he gives me some silly nonsense answer." 

"That's not a good sign," she says.

"Tell me about it."

Dara dips a French fry into a mound of ketchup. She swirls it around as she thinks. My mouth waters - I want that fry. I reach over and filch one from her plate. She grins. "Get your own," she says.

"I'll have to spend another hour at the gym if I eat a whole order of fries," I answer. "And I spend way too much time there as it is."

She shrugs, then she nudges the plate of fries a little closer - like I need the temptation. "The man must have something to hide," she says getting back to the subject.

"That's what I've been thinking and it has me worried, because I really like him."

"What do you think it is?"

I move my soda glass between me and the fries, hoping that _out of sight - out of mind_ really works. "I have no idea," I answer. "Could be any number of things, and it could be that he's just a very private sort of person. That I can deal with ... but those other unknown factors are a bit unnerving."

"It's hard to tell from a first impression, but he didn't strike me as the criminal type," she says. "Maybe he's in the witness protection program."

Dismissing her comment about the witness protection program, because that has crossed my mind as well, I find her other comment encouraging. Dara has always had good instincts - I trust her judgment - especially when it agrees with mine. I shake my head. "I didn't think so either or I wouldn't have gone out with him."

"Yeah, right," she says with a snicker. "I can just see you turning down Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous. I'd have dragged you off to the nearest shrink and while you were safely locked away - I'd have made a move on him." She leans back and looks at me with a gleam of mischief in her blue eyes. "You know ... that's not a bad idea."

"You know the rules," I say. "I saw him first ... I get first dibs."

She laughs. "Well, be sure to let me know when you're tired of him ... I'm not proud - I'll take a castoff ... especially one who looks like him. But I still want to know what's wrong with him. Maybe he's married."

I shake my head. "I've been to his place. He lives in a loft above a martial arts dojo - which he also owns, by the way - and it's a guy kind of place. There's no woman living there - I'm sure of it."

. 

She arches one eyebrow and gives me that leering look. "You've been to his place?" she says. "Do tell Auntie Dara all about it."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," I tell her. "He made dinner, we listened to a little music and played a game of chess." I smile at the memory of that - we didn't actually _play_ chess - Duncan gave me a chess lesson. He's way out of my league in that department - among others.

"He cooked you dinner?" she asks.

"Yeah ... and he's a pretty good cook too."

She looks serious as she shakes her head. "Whatever is wrong with this guy has got to be big ... really big."

An icy chill touches that spot on my spine right between my shoulder blades. My thoughts exactly and I don't really want to know that Dara has come to the same conclusion. "Why do you say that?" I ask, but I don't really want her to answer the question. I already know the answer, but if she says it out loud, I will no longer be able to ignore it.

"Because you know there's always bad to balance out the good," Dara points out the obvious. She's a Libra - she's always thinking about balance. "A guy with this many good points has to have some really big skeletons hanging in his closet. You know that."

She's right - I do. I just prefer to ignore it. I want him to be just who I think he is. I want his imperfections to be the usual kind - like maybe he squeezes the toothpaste tube in the middle, or leaves the cap off the shampoo. I can cope with a little snoring. I can live with him leaving his underwear on the floor. But I certainly couldn't cope with finding out he's a drug dealer or an arms dealer. Or worse yet, a Ted Bundy clone. I cringe when I go to the post office for fear, I'll find his picture hanging on the wall. Yet, he seems to be too honorable and too caring to be a master criminal. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself.

"Think about it," Dara says, as though I haven't been agonizing over it for a month. Using her fingers as markers, she begins to list his attributes - like I need reminding. 

"He's outrageously good-looking, and he's got a great bod. He's intelligent. He has a good sense of humor. From what you've told me, it sounds like he has better than a average income. He likes to dance - and you said he's good at it, too. He sends flowers. He can cook ... and he made you dinner at his place ... and he didn't try to have you for dessert--"

"I didn't say that," I interrupt her litany. She may be my best friend, and I tell her a lot ... I didn't tell her everything.

"Whoa ... what did I miss?" she asks, leering at me. "You holding out on me, girl?"

Pretending to search for more chicken, I stare into my salad and move a few pieces of romaine around with my fork. I don't think he actually planned on having me for dessert, but we're both adults ... we were alone in his place ... and it wasn't exactly a Victorian tea party. 

"There isn't much to hold out," I say, still searching for chicken. I can't look at her without grinning like a fool, and once the grin starts, the blush won't be far behind. I don't do this sharing of intimate details any better than I play chess. 

"We played a little tongue tag," I say. grinning despite my efforts. "He made a few moves, but I told him I wasn't ready to take that step, and he was really sweet - a true gentleman - he backed off with only a small protest."

I take a chance and glance up at her. She's shaking her head and making tsking sounds. "What's wrong with you?" she asks.

"Nothing's wrong with me," I counter, stabbing my fork into the salad. 

We've been through this before. Casual sex is one of the few things we disagree on. Don't get me wrong, Dara doesn't hop into bed with every guy she meets, but she's much more spontaneous about it than I am. She has no qualms - moral or otherwise - about sleeping with a guy simply because she feels like it at the time. She figures if she takes ample precautions - what's the harm. _Carpe diem_ is her personal motto. Me - I prefer to hold the day at a distance and analyze it a bit before clasping it to my bosom.

"You let an opportunity slide," she says. "And opportunity is not like the postman ... it doesn't ring twice."

"I'll take my chances."

"Suit yourself," she says, with a shrug, but not a trace of rancor. We've agreed to disagree on this point before.

We eat in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our own thoughts - then I remember something else that disturbed me. "He has a sword," I say.

"Don't they all," she answers with a lecherous grin. No doubt where her mind has been wandering.

"Not that kind of sword," I say, grinning along with her. "A Samurai sword."

She shrugs again. "You said he's an antique dealer ... maybe he collects them."

I remember seeing swords hanging on the wall when we passed through the dojo on our way upstairs, but this one wasn't hanging on the wall. "He does ... at least that's how he explained it, but he had this one with him ... under his coat, I think. He had his back to me, but I saw him put it in the corner when he hung our coats up."

"Maybe, he thinks he's Sir Lancelot," she says with a grin, but I can hear those gears turning in her head.

"I don't think he's that delusional. But it was very odd. Who takes a sword when they go to pick up a date?"

"Did you ask him about it?" she asks. I can tell by her tone, she expects me to say, no.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did. My curiosity got the better of me."

She laughs softly. "Congratulations ... and what did he say?"

. 

"He said it was very sharp."

She lifts an eyebrow waiting for me to explain.

"I wasn't sure, I saw, what I saw, so I went to get a closer look. He practically knocked me over racing to get there first, and he grabbed it before I could touch it. He said it was very sharp ... a priceless antique, then he put it away."

"Maybe, he's just one of those guys who doesn't like anyone touching his stuff."

"He didn't seem to mind me touching his rocks," I say, knowing how she will react to that comment.

"His rocks? You touched his rocks?" She snickers.

I give her a minute to get her mind nicely settled in the gutter, then I explain. "Garden variety rocks ... he has several of them decorating his coffee table." I see the disappointment rise in her eyes.

"Rocks ... you meet a man who keeps rocks on his table and you're worried about a sword."

"It's a Zen thing," I say. "He's very into martial arts, eastern philosophy ... all that kind of stuff. And he didn't seem to mind my touching any of the other things he has, and his loft is full of antiques and bits of artwork. He's even got an antique kimono hanging on the wall."

"Maybe it's some kind of macho thing with the sword," she says. "You gonna get desert?"

I want desert, but I'm not giving in to temptation. Dating a guy who looks like Duncan has strengthened my resolve to keep in shape. I've even gone jogging with him a few times - which reminds me of something else that was odd.

"Sometimes he does weird things," I say, pushing my plate away - the chicken's all gone and I can't look at that lettuce any more.

"Like carrying a sword," she says, laughing as she waves at our waitress. I don't think she believes the part about the sword. "Now we're getting somewhere ... all men do weird things - why should he be any different?"

"Because he is different ... that's what I've been trying to tell you."

"You want to think he's different, but - face it - you scratch the surface and they're all alike underneath."

"When did you get to be such a cynic?"

She brushes her bangs back from her face and she grins at me. "I've always been a cynic ... haven't you noticed?"

I think about that as she orders her desert. Perhaps she's right, but I suspect her shell of cynicism hardened after she broke up with Jeff Wagner last year. Jeff was a bastard - a manipulator who loved to play mind games. I had him pegged from the beginning and I tried to warn her, but she was in love and she couldn't see it - not at first. Now I wonder if I'm not falling into the same kind of trap. Why can't people just be what they seem to be? Life would be so much simpler.

"So tell me about the weird stuff ... I'll feel better knowing he's not perfect."

"It's nothing earthshattering really - it just seemed a bit odd. I took a vacation day and we went to the zoo. We were watching two bear cubs chase each other around and all of a sudden he stopped talking about the bears and he looked around like he heard something strange. Then he tells me, 'Stay here ... I'll be right back,' and he kept looking around as he walked away."

"So did he come back?"

"Yeah, about 15 minutes later. But he was edgy all through dinner. When I asked him what was wrong, he said, 'nothing.' After dinner, he took me right home, though we planned to go to _Joe's._ And he wouldn't come in. He said something came up and he had to leave."

"Maybe he remembered some business and he was looking for a phone. He made his phone call, and had to take care of whatever business it was. Maybe one of his clients needed a Ming vase for some big social bash or something."

She is grasping at straws ... we both know it. "He carries a cell phone ... why would he need a phone booth?"

"Maybe, he wanted a little privacy."

"Then why not just say, 'I gotta make a call,' and be done with it."

She shrugs, but I can tell her mind is working over the information the same way mine did. "You said it, yourself ... he's weird."

He is and he isn't, but that explanation doesn't work. "It doesn't make sense. It's not logical."

Dara laughs as she digs into a large dish of rice pudding topped with a mountain of whipped cream. I can't watch. 

"Well, Ms. Spock," she says, licking her spoon clean. I can't help myself - I watched. I'm eating vicariously. "I hate to tell you this," she continues between spoonfuls, "but most people aren't logical. They just do what they do and they don't analyze it to death. You worry too much."

I add a packet of real sugar to my coffee - I hate that artificial stuff. Blue packets or pink ... it all tastes funky. I'll only go so far to keep my waistline trim. I stir the coffee to death. It helps to keep my mind off the rice pudding. 

"Well, there's all sorts of little things that don't add up, here, and I can't help trying to figure out what all the clues are telling me. If I don't worry about them now, and I fall in love with him it will be too late."

"You're making a big deal out of nothing," she says. "Maybe he was just looking for the bathroom. Maybe he was too embarrassed to say something. Some people are like that."

I know she's trying, but I've already considered and dismissed these possibilities. "It's hard to explain. You had to be there, but - trust me - he wasn't looking for the bathroom. And he did the same thing when we went to see that traveling Rodin exhibit down at the art museum. Except this time, he didn't walk away. About two minutes after he got that weird expression on his face, some friend of his came up to say hello."

"Maybe he's psychic, and he's having visions."

"Yeah right," I say. "You don't believe that."

She pushes her desert dish to the side and clasps her hands on the table as she leans in. "Why don't you ask him?" 

I sigh. We've been through this. "There's no point. He won't answer me. He'll just change the subject. And I hate conducting an inquisition ... maybe it's none of my business."

"And maybe it is your business if you're going to get involved with him."

I have no answer for that ... she's right. But it's so very strange, I don't know what questions to ask - even if I did think he would answer them. There are explanations for all these odd bits, but the explanations don't quite click into place like they should. They're like a key that slides into a lock easily enough, but won't open the door because, though the groves match, the notches don't. Take the Band-Aids, for instance. 

I want to tell Dara about the Band-Aids but she's busy scanning the check and calculating a tip. It was such a little thing, insignificant really ... but when you place it next to all the other incidents it becomes such a large question mark. 

Duncan MacLeod has nothing in his medicine cabinet, but soap, deodorant and shaving cream. No aspirin, no antacids, no prescription allergy medications, nothing to put on a cut or burn ... no spray for athlete's foot ... no throat lozenges. I know because I looked.

I wasn't being nosy - I cut my finger slicing cucumbers for a salad. We were making dinner in his loft and he started hearing those signals in his head ... or whatever it is that gives him that strange look. "I'll be right back," he said, then he left. Left klutzy me alone with a sharp knife.

You guessed it - the knife slipped and I cut my finger - not a bad cut, but one that definitely begged for a Band-Aid. So I went looking for one, that's how I came to be checking his medicine cabinet ... but let me tell you that cupboard was barer than old Mother Hubbard's. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

I wrapped a wash cloth around my finger and I was digging in my purse when he came back. "Where do you keep your Band-Aids?" I asked.

He frowned like he had no idea what I was talking about, then he laughed - one of those nervous twittery laughs. "I don't have any," he said.

Well, I knew that, now didn't I?

He made a fuss over the cut, cleaned it off with the wash cloth, then helped me find a Band-Aid in the oversized supply cabinet, I refer to as my purse.

Like I said, it was odd. Jarring. What kind of a man keeps nothing in his medicine cabinet? Perhaps, I'm falling in love with an android.

Dara snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Kate ... you ready to go?"

I nod, but I don't tell her about the Band-Aid incident. It raises more questions than I care to examine at the moment.


	5. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 5

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 5

I awake slowly, drifting up through soft gossamer layers of sleep. Sunlight presses against my eyelids. It teases me to open them, but this is such a warm comforting place, and the light is an intruder. I don't want to let it in.

Slowly realization dawns and like the sun, it disturbs my tranquillity, but unlike the sun I welcome it. My senses tell me I'm in a strange place, yet one that is becoming familiar. In a flash of cognizance, I know where I am. I'm in Duncan's bed - where I've woken up several times over the last few weeks. I'm in Duncan's arms with the warm male scent of him wrapped around me.

We've come to this place, he and I. Moved beyond our boundaries. Past the point of turning back. No matter what happens, I can no longer dismiss him lightly. I can no longer erase him from my memories. And yet, I still know nothing about him.

In waking moments, when I'm at work or far away from his still-dazzling physical presence, I question my sanity, or at the very least my intelligence. I wonder whatever possessed me to slip so easily into an intimate relationship with a man I know nothing about. Nothing save that - above all else - he is intelligent, kind, often funny and the most interesting man, I've ever met.

Conscious of the dangers, I'm drawn to him like a river is drawn by gravity over a precipice. Each day I drift ever closer to inevitable disaster. Whatever his secret is, I know, that someday it will send me plummeting over a cliff. Someday it will shatter my illusions. Someday it will flow between us not merely a placid stream, but a roaring cataract, and if I wish to cross it - if I wish return to his side - I will have to risk being dashed on the rocks. Someday, I will have to deal with it or walk away. But now, I doubt if I can ever walk away without leaving a piece of myself behind. Now, I wonder if I can walk away at all.

Behind me he stirs. His chest is a bolster at my back, his arm - the weight around my waist, his hand - the warmth cradling my breast, his breath - a gentle caress on my neck. I rest my arm along the length of his arm, and interlace my fingers with his. I smile because I'm content. And I smile because, I've found a comforting flaw in his perfect veneer - he snores.

Not a loud window-rattling snore. I had an uncle who snored like that. No matter how many rooms away your bed was from his, it could keep you awake if you didn't fall asleep before he retired for the night.

Not even the raucous chatter of a chain saw. No this was closer to the sound of autumn leaves being rustled by a hefty breeze or the drone of a bumble bee searching for pollen on a hot summer day. While it can be annoying if you're trying to sleep, a snore can be such an intimate sound when it comes from a man whose mouth is mere inches from your ear.

In six months, I've come to know much - but not nearly enough - about this man who snores behind me. I've met some of his friends, and they're an odd lot - not the sort of friends I envisioned him having when we first met. 

Though he is at least ten or fifteen years older, Joe Dawson is perhaps the closest fit. He and Duncan laugh often when we're all together, and there's a warm camaraderie between them - two men from different origins who've found a common ground. Of course, since I don't ask pointed questions, I haven't learned the origins of either one, but I sense they've come together along vastly different paths.

And then there's Connor - who I gathered is some sort of distant cousin. He passed through Seacouver on his way back to New York a few weeks ago. He seemed nice enough, and he was an intelligent man with a wry twist to his humor. I liked him, yet there was something odd about him as well. There were looks that passed between them - him and Duncan. Looks that spoke thick tomes if you only knew the language ... which, of course, I didn't.

Richie and Adam are the two who don't quite fit the group shot I have in mind when I think of Duncan with his friends. Richie can't be more than twenty, and though he seems a street-wise kid, there is an air of innocence about him. He holds it in and covers it well, but it flows deep beneath his tough-guy surface. In a quiet moment, when Duncan was busy talking to Joe, I worked up the nerve to ask Richie how he and Duncan met. 

He smiled, then he told me that he had been living on the streets and that he had broken into an antique shop Duncan had a few years back. He explained that instead of pressing charges, Duncan and the woman he was living with, took him in. That explained the hints of the father-son relationship, I had noticed between them. The Richie Ryan Reclamation project, he called it, laughing easily. Then his expression slipped from boyish smile to serious adult, and he told me about Tessa.

On one of the shelves in the loft, Duncan has a picture of him with his arm wrapped around a pretty blond woman. They are both smiling and they look very much in love ... with each other. 

When I first noticed it, I walked over for a closer look. I sensed him move to stand behind me, then he reached around and picked up the picture. I was reluctant to turn around, afraid to see what emotions I might find swirling in his dark eyes. Afraid to find out who the woman might be.

"Who is she?" I asked. The words were out before I had a chance to realize that I didn't want to know.

"Was," he said in a quiet voice - a whisper that told me more than I wanted to hear. "She's dead." All emotion gone then, locked away in safe place.

I turned around, slowly, compelled to face what I feared, but he had turned away. He crossed the room and put the picture in a drawer. To hide it from my prying eyes, or to hide it from himself? I couldn't be sure. 

He stood for a moment with his back to me, then I moved to stand behind him. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my cheek against his back. His heart thumped faintly against my ear. "You loved her," I said. Half question ... half statement, because I already knew the answer.

"Yes," he said. Barely a whisper driven by a deep exhalation.

He pushed the drawer shut, then he turned in my embrace. Draping an arm across my shoulders, he smiled. "Want some coffee?" he asked. The only trace of deep emotion left were the tiny wells of moisture in the corners of his eyes.

The next time I visited his loft, a jade Buddha sat in the picture's place, and it filled me with a sorrow I didn't quite understand. If we move into a serious relationship, I will ask him to put the picture back. If he loved her as much as I suspect, he can't expunge her from his life. Even if it were possible, I wouldn't want him to.

Light danced in Richie's blue eyes as he spoke about Tessa, and I knew that she must have been a special lady. I can't deny Duncan that, nor do I fear her ghost. Some deep instinct tells me that, above all else, she would want him to be happy. It is a bond I share with this woman who loved Duncan, and then died - I want him to be happy, as well.

As my thoughts of Tessa fade, Adam surfaces in my mind and the word _enigmatic_ swiftly follows the vision of his twinkling, yet crafty, eyes and thin face. My senses tell me he is the oddest of Duncan's hodge-podge collection of friends. Adam Pierson is not who he seems - of that I am certain.

"A perpetual grad student," Joe had said in a teasing tone, and Adam didn't deny the jibe.

In jeans, sneakers and a grey sweatshirt, with dark, short-cropped hair and his fingers constantly wrapped around a beer bottle, Adam fits the image, all right, but the mystery that clings like a silver mist to Duncan, clings to Adam as well.

His dry wit, and raging cynicism sit well and seem an intrinsic part of him, but the grad student facade does not, and I wonder what lies beneath it. Dara would like Adam Pierson and I contemplated playing the match game, but I realize I will not be doing her any favors by dragging her into this tangle of intrigue with me.

If you asked me to guess, I'd probably say that Adam is in his late twenties - or barely over the line into his third decade, yet there is an aura of age and experience beyond that number of years that shimmers around him.

He is a man who knows things. He is a man with secrets locked deep in his soul. And he is a man who has forgotten the meaning of innocence ... forgotten it long ago. I watch his eyes, and Duncan's when they meet by chance or intent, and I can feel the tingle of what passes between them. They have a common bond of some sort that goes beyond friendship, these two men, and I wonder what it could be.

The others - Joe, Richie and Connor - they know what Duncan hides from the world. I can hear it when they talk. I can see it in their eyes. They are on that side of a glass wall; I am on this side. He trusts them with his soul - he doesn't yet trust me. But I'm working on it.

He is awake now, moving dewy soft lips in a trail of kisses across my shoulder, but I pretend I'm asleep so I can see what creative persuasion he will use to wake me. The palm of his hand feels slightly rough like fine textured emery as he slides it along my side and down my thigh. Before his hand even reaches its destination, I squirm with anticipation and the sudden flare of desire pulses hot and cold at the same time. I'm awake and every cell in my body is alive with wanting him. I can no longer pretend. The deep soft chuckle that brushes my ear tells me he is aware of his triumph and quite pleased with the result.

I turn to face him, then sink my teeth into his lower lip in retaliation. It doesn't faze him. Nothing does. He is never surprised, yet he surprises me at every turn. I've had my fair share of lovers, but never have I met a man who can lift the ordinary act of making love to such a level that it becomes an art form. I ask him in a breathless whisper how he learned to be such a master.

"Same way you get to Carnegie Hall," he mumbles, his lips pressed against my skin. "Practice, practice, practice."

I pinch him for telling bad jokes in bed. He laughs and the sultry sound of it sends shivers along my fevered flesh. "You'll pay for that," I tell him.

"Promises, promises," he mutters, then he proceeds to erase all thoughts of revenge from my mind.


	6. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 6

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 6

The old lift grumbles and groans as it clambers up to the loft. When it stops all is quiet. A light on the desk casts a weak glow over the glossy wood floor, then drifts toward the Oriental rug, but it doesn't reach beyond the bound edge. Outside the circle of pale yellow light, the rest of the loft lies cloaked in shadows. Duncan is not here.

Though he has given me a key, I feel like an intruder as I lift the gate. The rubber sole of my sneaker squeals on the floor and the sudden sound startles me. "Duncan," I call out, knowing he won't answer, but the attempt at contact makes me feel less intrusive.

I pause a few steps into the room, unsure of what I should do next. He was supposed to meet me at _Joe's_ two hours ago, but he never showed. That's not like him at all. One thing I have learned about him over the last months - almost a year now - is that when Duncan MacLeod says he will do something, he does it.

The cold clammy breath of unknown terror brushes across my neck and shoulders. His absence can be explained in any one of dozen logical and perfectly innocent ways, but my gut tells me something is radically wrong. No reason for it, just an instinct that holds my heart in a death grip. The bitter taste of panic presses at the base of my throat and I have no solid answer for why it's there. It just is and it won't go away.

The sound of a door slamming shut echoes through the loft from downstairs and muffled sounds drift up, carried by the elevator shaft. Before I can add the clues together, the lift motor grinds to life. A rush of adrenaline pushes my heart into overdrive, and a unreasonable pulse of fear tingles as it rushes along my spine. Your imagination's working overtime, I scold myself, wondering why I have such a tenuous hold on reality all of a sudden.

I probably caught this mood from Joe. It's all his fault. I told him Duncan said he would meet me, and he kept asking if I heard from him ... like something was wrong. Like he knew what business had kept Duncan away. Joe knew something all right ... knew and wouldn't tell me. I asked, but he laughed. 

"Mac will be fine," he said without explanation. Such an odd thing to say about someone who is merely late for a date. Such an odd thing to say about someone unless you know there is a possibility that they won't be fine at all.

The lift rises into view. The low watt bulb bathes Duncan's slumped shoulders and bowed head with an eerie light as he leans against the side wall.

A rush of relief chases my fear and I take a step toward the lift cage. The sound of my sneakers catches him by surprise. His head snaps up, and he quickly masks the flicker of alarm that shines briefly in his eyes. 

"Hi," he says, smiling crookedly as he pushes the gate out of the way. He does not allow his gaze to meet mine.

I can't stop the audible gasp as the reason for his reluctance penetrates my brain. He looks like he just escaped from a demon paper shredder. His hair has been pulled loose from the tie at his nape and it drifts around his face in wild disarray. Strands lie plastered by sweat across his forehead. His thin sweater bears two straight-edged slashes crusted in what appears to be blood - one across his chest, one across his right sleeve. His left leg bears a similar scar through the fabric of his jeans. Those slashes were made by something sharp - a knife ... or a sword. I wonder what prompts that left field speculation.

His dark eyes shine with a wild light, yet he appears unhurt. In fact he seems surrounded by a strange glow ... a glow best described as an aura of triumph.

"What the hell happened to you?" I ask, paralyzed momentarily by this apparition I know to be Duncan.

He glances down at his shredded clothes, then grins as he looks up again. "You should see the other guy," he says.

I rush to his side, and wrap my arms around his waist. For that brief second, I don't care what happened. He is safe, whole. He is here with me. "But you're hurt." I say, knowing he must be.

With gentle, yet firm pressure on my arms, he pushes me away from him, then brushes past me. "I'm fine," he says. The very same words Joe Dawson used. 

I shake my head to dispel the surrealistic miasma that sucked me into its slimy depths the moment I saw him - saw him before he realized he was not alone. Something is radically wrong here, yet it eludes me like the faint smell of smoke from a distant fire drifting on a night breeze. One minute it's clear and pungent and the next moment it's merely a faded memory.

"Duncan," I shout. 

He stops, turns his head. A deep inhalation lifts his shoulders. He waits for me to move to his side. I lift my hand to touch one of the gaps in his sweater. He flinches, but he doesn't step away. Underneath his skin is unmarred, taut over the muscles of his chest. I can't believe what my eyes tell me is true. He takes my hand, raises it to his mouth, then he kisses my fingers. He slips his other hand into my hair and pulls me close for a deep kiss. His lips are warm, like fresh picked raspberries against my own as he draws me under his spell. 

"I'm okay," he says, releasing me from his embrace, but not the spell. "I'm going to wash up, why don't you fix us a drink." Another quick kiss and he's gone.

"Fix us a drink," he said. Us? I need the whole bottle - there won't be any left for him. He's icy calm; he doesn't need a drink.

My movements seem sluggish as though I'm walking under ten feet of water. I cross the room to the kitchen area next to the elevator. I take two glasses, drop a few ice cubes in one. Duncan drinks his whiskey straight, but I've got to have ice. I try to think, but my brain's gone AWOL. Hiding out somewhere in the bushes, perhaps. I have no clue ... no inkling ... no trace of thought about what is going on. I work through the task with the calm motions of a robot to keep my shaken sanity from crumbling all together. Something is totally out of plumb here - like the tilted room in a fun house - and my sense of balance is all out of whack.

As I sink into the cushions of the sofa, I can hear water running in the bathroom. Such a nice, normal, familiar sound. I sip the whiskey - old unblended Scotch whiskey. Its smooth fire calms my frazzled nerves somewhat. There's a logical explanation, I reassure myself. He'll come out. He'll explain. We'll make love, wake up tomorrow morning and all will be as it was before.

Uh-uh ... a voice whispers in my head. Welcome to the _Twilight Zone_ ... where nothing is as it seems.

"Shut up," I tell the voice.

"Who are you talking to?" Duncan's voice comes from mere inches away.

He swings his legs over the couch, then slides down next to me. He reaches for the glass, I left on the table for him, drains the liquor in one long swallow, then he pours another. 

Totally lost in this bizarre situation, I run my hand along his back. He has put on a sweatshirt, so I can't see the evidence of his injuries ... or the lack of it.

"Duncan ... what--" 

He turns and kisses me again ... to keep me from asking the question. Now I'm getting annoyed. I push him way. "That won't work," I tell him. 

He edges away. Tucking one leg under him, he turns his body to face me. He stretches one arm out along the back of the couch, and he circles one finger on my shoulder. The grin he hides by tipping his chin down has a sheepish angle to it. "It's over," he says. "Don't worry about it. It was nothing ... just a couple of kids ... they tried to hold me up."

I'm not buying this story and he knows it. "And," I say when he shows no sign of elaborating. 

He shrugs. He still doesn't make eye contact, and the lie that stands between us is growing fangs and long stringy hair. He takes a deep breath. "And ... nothing. I fought them ... they ran away."

Which is probably what I should be doing. If I was smart, I'd leave or demand an explanation. But I'm not smart - not anymore. I'm in love ... in love with a man who asks me to believe he came back from a mugging and a fight without a scratch. I don't know what to believe. I want him to hold me and make all this go away. Kiss it and make it better like my mother used to do when I fell and scraped a knee.

"What happened to your clothes," I ask. I'm driven to ask because I don't know what else to do.

He shifts his foot to the floor again, and he holds his drink in both hands, as he stares down at it. "One of them had a knife," he says. The undertone in his voice says, _Don't ask any more questions._

That kid must have been very skilled to cut your sweater, but leave the flesh underneath untouched, I think, but I don't say that aloud. Duncan is even more skilled at parrying my questions.

"Did you call the police?" I ask - one more question ... the last one.

He shakes his head - a negative movement. "It was dark, and I didn't see them clearly enough to identify them." 

I can't deal with this. "You obviously don't want me here ... I'm leaving," I say. I wonder if my knees will keep my legs from buckling as I stand.

He bolts from the couch before I can take two steps. He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me back into him. "That's not true," he mumbles into my hair, then he marches kisses down my neck. "Don't go," he says, "please, don't go."

"Give me a reason to stay."

He turns me around to face him, tugging my t-shirt free of the waistband of my jeans as he does, then he slips his hands underneath. He dips his head to kiss me. I intercept his mouth with my hand. "That's not what I mean," I tell him.

I'm trying my best to sound stern, but he has put on his best, _puppy dog look._ Big brown eyes - sad eyes. Curled lower lip. My will is crumbling ... my resolve fading fast. I should not have turned around. To keep a safe distance, I rest my hands on his chest. But that's not safe enough or far enough. 

"You don't trust me, Duncan," I say. "I need you to trust me."

He sighs, and lifts his head as he glances up at the ceiling. He doesn't answer. He just pulls me closer. Holding me, he rests his cheek against mine. His heart beats a strong pulse, vibrating against my chest. His breath stirs the hair over my ear. His hands circle slowly over my back. We don't move. We just stand there absorbing the essence of each other for a long moment.

He pulls away slightly, then burrows his fingers in my hair. His thumbs leave tingling trails as they caress my jaw. He searches my face with those intense dark eyes and our gazes lock. He wants to trust me, I can see it shining their depths ... but he can't. Something holds him back. "I need time," he whispers.

I take a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. How can I deny such a simple request? He has won - he knows it. I know it. He has won ... for now. But for how much longer ... I can not say. 


	7. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 7

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 7

I haven't seen Dara for three weeks. We talk on the phone every day or at least every other day, but we don't see each other much anymore. It's sad fact, but it often happens between friends when one or both settle into a relationship with a guy. Dara met a guy two months ago and it seems to be working out well. I'm happy for her, but we hardly ever get together, now, and I miss her company.

Part of it's my fault - time spent with her means time away from Duncan, and I can never get enough time with him. I tell myself this obsession with him will wear off eventually, and I'll settle into a stream of normalcy, but there is nothing normal about my relationship with Duncan MacLeod. Nothing even close to resembling it.

"Mike's company has a big function at the end of the month," Dara told me the other day when we spoke on the phone. "Help me pick out a dress?" 

Ah ... a day at the mall. It's what friends do. It's what Dara and I used to do quite frequently. I can't remember the last time we did, though.

I shift the pile of dresses she's already chosen from one arm to the other as she holds up yet another possibility. It's a classy little number - black crepe with sequins edging the high neck and very low cut back, but I like the blue one in her left hand better. Dara looks great in blue. I tell her, and she shrugs off the complement as I know she will, but I notice the pleased smile she hides by turning her head. At last, armed with the maximum allowable number of garments, we head for the dressing room.

All during lunch, I was able to push thoughts of Duncan to the back of my mind. Well, not all my thoughts, but the worries and concerns anyway. Dara and I quickly fell into old patterns. She chattered on about Mike, and I let her. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too much to say and nowhere to begin. Because I had no way to describe the deeply disturbing events of the last few days. Dara's my best friend, I should be able to tell her these things - but I can not, because I know I will sound insane.

I couldn't even tell her about something as nearly insignificant as the Band-Aid incident. How could I possibly describe the expression on Duncan's face when he returned home after the alleged mugging? How could I explain his sudden appearance at my door the other night with the same gleam of passion and triumph shining in his eyes?

I cling to the normalcy, to the safe reality of watching Dara wriggle out of her jeans and into a pale green dress, but my mind keeps returning to the other night.

It was long after midnight. I should have been asleep, but I couldn't sleep - something that's been happening with a distressing frequency lately. When I'm with Duncan, sated from an evening of love-making, then I can sleep. I feel safe in his arms, but when I'm alone, my thoughts torture me, battering my brain until I'm exhausted, but far too tense to sleep.

I gave up the battle, poured myself a glass of sherry, and tore into the thick romance novel I've been reading - like I need more swashbuckling heroes with dark brooding looks in my life. The doorbell buzzed just as the hero was about to ravish the heroine.

Figuring it was probably one of my neighbors who forgot their key, I was tempted to ignore it. Let them try someone else. But then again, maybe it wasn't a neighbor.

During dinner, Duncan had seemed strangely reticent - even for him. We went to a great little Italian place we discovered downtown last month, and he barely ate a forkful of his pasta. Mostly he just moved his food around on the plate. 

"I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought," he had said with a grin when I pointed this out.

"What's wrong?" I'd asked, reaching out for his hand. He held my fingers for a moment, brought them to his lips for a kiss, then he set my hand back on the table.

"Nothing," he said, but he didn't look at me.

"Duncan," I said to let him know he couldn't fool me. I knew something was troubling him.

Still not meeting my gaze, he lifted the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. He held the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and his forefinger as he turned it around near the edge of his full plate. He seemed intensely interested in the pattern of light the small candle cast on the dark red Chianti that filled the glass. 

"Just some business," he said with a slight shrug. "Nothing worth worrying about."

Then why are you worrying, I thought, but I didn't ask. I knew by now he wouldn't tell me, so there was no point in badgering him. I've given up fretting about the fact that he can't seem to bring himself to trust me. I guess I was just born with the patience of a cat waiting at a mouse hole. I know that mouse is in there somewhere. I can smell him. I can hear him rustling around behind the wall. He's got to come out someday, and if I leave, I'll never catch him. It's an intrigue thing, now. I've waited this long - I'm not leaving until the finale. Besides, I'm in love with him ... I couldn't leave now if I wanted to.

I've only recently admitted that to myself - that I love him. I haven't told him. I can't - not yet. Still I wonder if that's what he is waiting for. Perhaps love is the key that will unlock his door. Perhaps love is the bait that will lure the mouse out of the hole. But telling him I love him is too much of a giant leap at this point. I've already gone beyond my safety net with him, and I need more time to take this last step. Time or a sure sign from him that he feels the same way. I sense he does, but I can't be sure. 

All this runs through my head, as I swing my feet over the bed. The doorbell buzzes again, and I think maybe it _is_ Duncan. He knows I'm home ... where else would I be at this hour on a week night? 

I'm not exactly dressed to receive visitors, so I grab a pair of leggings to drag on under the t-shirt I'm wearing just in case it's not him. I think about how preoccupied he seemed at dinner, and about the business he said he had to take care of when he dropped me off and didn't come up. It's not like him to turn down an invitation to come up, and usually I don't have to ask - he just follows me.

Like a dark cloud sliding past the sun on a mostly clear day, a chilling tingle passes over my heart as I consider the other possibilities. It could be the police ... or one of his friends who've come to tell me he's been hurt ... or worse. I try to shake off the flurry of fear, but my hand trembles as I press my finger on the intercom button.

"Yes," I say. The single syllable comes out like the croak of a frog with laryngitis. 

"Kate?" 

It _is_ Duncan, and his voice sounds as shaky as mine. Still I grin like a fool and my knees quake under the ton of relief.

"Yes, Kate," I answer, leaning against the wall for support. "Who else did you expect would answer my bell at this hour? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Until that moment, I didn't realize the size of the hobgoblin herd my imagination had spawned. They scamper off, now that I know he's safe, but one or two linger at the edge of my mind, ready to pounce at the tiniest opportunity.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry ... I just thought--" He leaves the end of the last sentence dangling like a worm on a hook. 

I take the bait. "No, I couldn't sleep. Come on up," I tell him, then I press the button to open the lobby door.

I toss the leggings on the bed, retrieve my wine glass, then make a quick assessment of my appearance in the mirror - a reflex action that makes me smile. He's seen what I look like when I go to bed ... and worse, what I look like when I wake up. Lucky for me, the man doesn't scare easily. I take a moment to drag my hair into place with my fingers, anyway - as I steel myself to face the unknown, I need something that feels ordinary. Some commonplace action to grasp.

Following hunch, I grab a glass and a bottle of his favorite single malt whiskey and set them on the table in front of the sofa along with my wine glass. Why I think he will need a drink, I have no idea, but his voice sounded like a cord of tension had snaked around his throat. His knock at the door is soft, tentative - a sound I wouldn't have heard if I wasn't standing a few feet away.

Three steps take me to the door, I open it slowly. I can't help it - the sight of him still leaves me as breathless as the first time I saw him. I assumed the reaction would fade with time and familiarity, but it hasn't. If anything it has intensified because now I know what responses he can draw from me when we make love, and my body remembers them well.

"Lose your key?" I ask, stepping back to let him in.

He shrugs as though he has forgotten I gave him a key. His dark eyes glisten with a wild, almost feral light, and if I didn't know him better, I would think he was high on some kind of drug. 

"I shouldn't have come," he says with a smile. 

"But you did, and I'm awake, so come inside before you wake my neighbors."

Hesitating, he glances around the empty hall for a moment. He's still wearing the clothes he wore at dinner, but his hair is loose, pale dirt smudges mar his long dark coat, and his blue silk shirt bears splotches of moisture. He looks like he's just finished a workout. I want to ask if he's had another run in with his teenage muggers, but I didn't believe that story then, I'm certainly not going to believe it now.

"Are you coming in or not?" I ask again.

He flashes me a smile - a real smile - and I catch the strong male scent of him as he brushes past me and into the living room. He _has_ been working out, or indulging in some kind of physical activity - in boots, dress pants and a silk shirt. Is it him or me? One of us is insane. 

My nose also picks up another scent - a very faint trace of ozone. It follows close on his heels like a stray dog. Ozone - like it lingers in the air after an electrical storm. Ozone? On a starry, cloudless night? How very odd. My imagination must be putting in some overtime again.

He stands in the middle of the room as though he has forgotten why he came. As though he doesn't know what to do next. I'd offer to take his coat, but I've learned that he reacts strangely to that common gesture of courtesy. It's one of those weird quirks he has. Offering to take his coat makes him very skittish, and I've learned to let it alone. I frequently remember the incident with the sword, and I wonder if he really does carry it around with him under the coat, but the notion is simply too absurd.

"Are you going to sit down, or are you waiting for the bus?" I ask as I shut the door and move to stand beside him. I glance at my watch. "If you are, you're in trouble, the last one passed by an hour ago. I don't think there's another 'til morning."

Shaking his head as though to clear his ears, he blinks at me. "What did you say?" he asks. 

"It isn't worth repeating," I answer, laughing. "Do you want a drink? Or I could make some coffee." 

"Um ... a drink would be great," he says, looking around as if he has been suddenly transported to another world - and not one he expected to find himself in either. 

Now, I am really starting to worry about him. I rub my hand in a circle on his back and press a kiss into his shoulder. "Duncan, are you all right?"

He smiles ... a weak smile. He is not all right. I don't care what that smile says. "I'm fine," he answers.

There's that word again - fine. He is far from fine. "Well, you look frazzled."

He glances down at his clothes. "I'm just tired, I guess."

I pour a healthy measure of Scotch into the glass, then hand it to him. His fingers tremble slightly when they touch mine, and he stares into the glass for a long moment as though it contains some important message, then he drains it in one swallow. Bending over, he sets the glass back on the table.

"Didn't the business you had to take care of work out the way you planned?" I ask, wondering again what kind of business he could have been conducting at such a late hour.

He straightens slowly, like his equilibrium isn't functioning on all six cylinders. "Business?" he asks. Either he's forgotten or he's not paying attention ... or maybe there wasn't any business in the sense I understand the word, at all.

"At dinner, you said you had some business to take care of. Isn't that where you went after you dropped me off?"

He stares at me with a glazed look. He's not seeing me, I can tell. He shakes his head again as though he is gathering his wits in the wake of an emotional trauma, then tips it down to massage his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. When he lifts it again, his expression has nearly returned to the one I'm used to seeing.

"Oh, that," he says smiling. "Yeah, it went well."

The transformation astounds me. This is not the same man, I opened the door to just minutes before. This is my Duncan, the one I've been falling in love with ... still something I read about multiple-personality disorder flies in to roost at the edge of my consciousness. It's a vague memory, and I don't want to think about it ... not tonight - I'm too delighted to have my Duncan back.

I circle his waist with my arms and rest my head on his shoulder. He holds me close. I can feel his heart beat quicken against my chest. He moves his lips through my hair, leaving a trail of kisses behind as he slips his hands under my t-shirt.

His hands melt into warm continuous motion as they glide over my back, drawing me into him. He claims my mouth with his and drains me like he drained the liquor from the glass, leaving only molten need. I want him now ... here in the living room ... I can not make the long journey to the bedroom - my knees will never hold.

Peeling away the layers of his clothes, we sink to the floor. As he drops his coat behind us, a faint metallic clunk disturbs the haze of passion that holds me firmly in its grasp. And I remember the sword ... but the memory evaporates quickly in the heat of desire, and I do not pursue it.


	8. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 8

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 8

"So what do you think," Dara asks as she twirls before me. The blue glass beads on the dress glitter in the harsh fluorescent light of the small dressing cubicle.

I can feel the flush spread up my face as the memory of making love with Duncan mingles with the image of Dara standing before me. 

Dara narrows her eyes as she stares at me. "Hello," she says grinning, "Why do I get the feeling, you're not thinking about my dress?"

"Sorry," I say. "I haven't been getting much sleep. I guess I drifted off."

"I'll say," she says, chuckling. I hate it when she reads my mind. Luckily for me she probably stopped at the sex part and didn't chase down the rest of what I was thinking. 

She turns her back to me as she rearranges the order of the dresses on the hook. "I know Duncan is terribly distracting, but you're supposed to be helping me pick out a dress, remember. And get more sleep - you need to conserve your energy with a guy like him." 

She sets all but three dresses aside, the blue one which she is still wearing, the black one and the pale green one. "So what do you think?" she asks.

"I've already told you, I like the blue one, but you obviously want the black one - so get it."

"Don't you think it's sexy?" she asks, running her finger along the silver sequins to the bottom of the deep V in the back. She grins. "I can't wear a bra with it, and Mike said they will have music for dancing." She holds the dress in front of her as she waltzes in a tiny circle. "He'll have his hand on my bare back ..."

"It's a corporate function, Dara," I remind her. "Mike's on a fast track to the executive suite, remember? You have to think about the image he wants to project. The blue one is understated, classy and it will bring out the blue in your eyes."

She lifts her lip in a pseudo-snarl. "What about the green one?" she asks.

I can't help laughing. We know each other so well, yet we always try to get around it. "The green one's a red herring ... and you know it. Just like you know you should buy the blue one. You only asked me along to be the bad guy."

She perches her hands on her hips as she does a pretty fair imitation of a frown. "I really hate it when you're right," she says, then she sticks her tongue out at me. "Do you always know everything?"

She's only teasing, but something about that question sets me off. I've been holding in my bizarre thoughts and real concerns about Duncan far too long. My hands start to tremble and my knees buckle. I sink down onto the small stool in the corner. "I don't know everything," I groan, clutching my aching head. "In fact, don't know anything at all."

She puts her hand on my shoulder, and I look up. She's hunkered down in front of me, her eyes shining with concern. I remember what best friends are for, and I love her for being mine. "Hey, kiddo," she says. "What's wrong?"

I swallow to ease the fist-sized lump of pressure in my throat and fight to hold back the tears. I refuse to cry about this, even in front of my best friend. It's been gnawing at me since the other night and there's nothing I can do about it - that's the frustrating part. And it's all my own fault. I've never let a man get as far into my soul as I've let Duncan MacLeod. I've succeeded in keeping every man I've ever been involved with at a safe distance, so I don't get hurt. But the mystery of Duncan MacLeod has been so intriguing that I forgot to set up barriers to keep him out. I've let him become an integral a part of me, and if he leaves he will rip out the guts of who I am. I never wanted this to happen, but it has ... and it beginning to scare me.

I take a deep breath to find some small measure of calm. "Dara, I'm going to lose him."

"Wow," she says, standing. "He really must be something else. I've never seen you like this ... you're always so in control. Even when Danny Lockwood split ... you were over it in a week." She snaps her fingers to make her point.

Danny Lockwood was the center of my life in college. I really thought I loved him. Now, I know, I wasn't even close. His leaving hurt my pride more than anything else, but - though I never let it show - it took longer than a week to get over him. Along with that large chunk of my pride, he took a small piece of my heart as well. After that I vowed I would never again let a man get so close. Guess what ... I failed - big time.

"Thanks," I say, getting a grip on my emotions. Dara is making me angry, and I suspect that is exactly what she intended to do. It doesn't solve any problems, but I feel better ... more myself instead of this stranger, I've become. "You make me sound like an ice maiden or something."

She chuckles. "You're welcome, she says. "But you are a control freak, kiddo - always so icy cool and safe at a distance. If your best friend can't tell you that - who can?" She slips out of the dress and wriggles back into her jeans. Tapping me on the head with a hanger, she smiles. "I like the new you ... now you're human, like the rest of us. I think we need a drink."

Not a bad idea. "What are you going to do about the dress?" I ask.

She holds the blue one in her left hand and the black one in her right. "I'm taking both. If Mike gets that promotion, we'll need to celebrate," she says with a wicked little grin.

I lift one eyebrow as I take a gander at the price tags. "Better you than me ... the folks at Visa will be overjoyed." I would worry about overextending myself, but Dara won't ... and somehow she'll manage to pay the bill.

She shrugs. "I can learn to love peanut butter sandwiches. Come on - lets go get that drink."

I wanted a beer, but Dara insisted that the occasion of my fall from the summit of control required something more frivolous. In a dimly lit bar decorated with dusty fish nets and dingy cork floats, we sit sipping deadly concoctions of rum, and who knows what else - deadly concoctions hiding behind innocent paper parasols and little swords filled with fruit. The sign above the door read, _Pirate Pete's Paradise Cove_ - just the place to fritter away a rainy afternoon.

It's the kind of place, I'd go around the block to avoid, but it's the kind of place that appeals to Dara's bizarre sense of whimsy. She's still giggling over the stuffed parrot the bartender wears perched on his shoulder ... that and the eye patch. She really loves the eye patch.

"So how many more of these do we have to drink before you tell me why you think you're going to lose Duncan?"

_A lot more._ I let my breath out in sigh. "It's a long complicated story," I say to put her off, but I know it won't work.

I sketch out the framework, but I don't fill in the details. I can't because I know what she will say and I don't want to accept the reality that what she will advise is the only safe course.

Dara sees things in black and white. She categorizes quickly ... good and bad ... right and wrong - and makes her decisions accordingly. I wrestle with shades of grey. I analyze the nuances and the effects of circumstances. And I'm never quite sure I've made the right decision. It's probably why I am - as she says - a control freak. If I maintain a safe distance and stay in control, I can protect myself from the results of a wrong decision. I can prevent myself from getting into the kind of situation I now find myself in.

There is no way can I tell Dara that I think Duncan has killed someone. She will tell me to get away - as far away as I can. She will tell me to cut my losses and run. And she would be right, but I can't leave him. If he leaves me, I will have to deal with it ... somehow I will have to find the strength to put my life back together. But I can't leave him ... no matter what has happened ... I just can't.

I'm not even sure he _has_ killed someone, but strong instincts tell me it is so.

"I took care of it," is what he said when I asked about the man I found waiting for me when I came home from work last week. "He won't be coming back to bother you."

As luck would have it, my car was in the shop for repairs, and Duncan drove me home or I don't know what would have happened. Like the gallant knight he perceives himself to be, he dropped me off at the lobby entrance, then went around to park the car. He actually thinks he's doing me a favor by saving me the small effort it takes to come up from the garage. At times, I find his anachronistic chivalry endearing, but at other times it's simply a pain in the butt.

Like many other things I've given up arguing with him about it. Arguing takes too much energy ... energy I can use for other things - like making love, which is what I was thinking about as I slipped my key into the lock. 

When I walked into the apartment, I nearly jumped out of my skin. A man sat on my sofa, thumbing through a magazine as serenely as though he was expected for tea.

"Well, hello there," he said, standing.

He was about as tall as Duncan - maybe taller - with sandy blonde hair, a winning smile and the coldest, most predatory blue eyes I've ever seen. "W-who are you?" I demanded with as stern a voice as I could muster around the stammer. 

I dropped my briefcase and fumbled in my purse for the can of mace, I remembered I have somewhere in its oversized depths. "How did you get into my apartment?"

"I'm a friend of Duncan's," he said, answering my first question - ignoring the second. "A very old friend. Nice place you've got here."

No way I'm buying that story - it just doesn't sit right. The situation was so bizarre, I felt a fit of hysterical giggles coming on, but terror held them in check as my fingers found the comforting shape of the aluminum cylinder. I extended my arm to its full length. My finger trembled on the mace can nozzle. "Don't come any closer."

The intruder laughed - an arctic blast of mind-numbing sound. "Do you think you can stop me with that?" he said stepping toward me.

"Maybe not," I said, "but I can slow you down until--"

The sound of Duncan's key in the lock, drowned me in a sea of relief. When he opened the door, his eyes grew wide as he stared at me for a very long second, then he threw the door back and flew into the room. "What are you doing here, Brock?"

"Just visiting this lovely lady," he replied. Glancing around Duncan's shoulder, Brock leered at me. The evil promise in that smile left me numb.

Duncan took a step closer to Brock so they were standing nose to nose. "Leave her out of this," he said. I couldn't see his face, but I had never heard such a lethal tone in his voice.

Brock stared at Duncan for a moment, then made little tsking sounds as he shook his head. "All's fair in love and war, MacLeod," he said. "You should have remembered that before you took up with her. I hope you can live with your conscience." He chuckled then, as though he was enjoying some private joke, but all the humor had been sucked out of the sound. "For as long as you have it."

Duncan stood frozen, except for his fists which clenched and unclenched in the same uneven rhythm as my heart beat.

"I'll see you around," Brock said, stepping to the side. 

He began to walk around Duncan, but Duncan grabbed his arm. "No, let's settle this now," he said. 

He had turned his head, and I had a clear view of his profile. The muscle at his jaw twitched with barely contained fury, and I had never seen his eyes so cold. I had never seen this side of him at all. I had suspected he was capable of towering rage, but until now it was pure speculation based on the intensity of his other emotions.

Brock cast a glance brimming with contempt at Duncan's hand on his arm. He plucked Duncan's fingers from his sleeve, then dropped his hand as though it was merely an annoying insect. "All in good time, MacLeod ... all in good time. I really hate to be rushed - don't you?"

Brock stepped up to me, then he bowed slightly as he took my hand. You could have knocked me over with the flick of a silk scarf as he pressed the back of my fingers to his lips.

"It was a pleasure," he crooned over my fingers. "Pity I can't stay. Perhaps, we shall meet again."

Maybe, it was shock. Maybe, it was the surreal circumstances. Maybe, it was pure survival instinct, but a flash of anger-filled adrenaline surged through me at that moment, and I slapped his face as hard as I could. At the same time a squeaky voice echoed through my head. _Are you out of your mind,_ it shrieked. _Most likely,_ I thought in response.

I flinched, prepared to duck, when Brock laughed. I didn't even see Duncan cross the room to my side. He stood between Brock and me, but I could still see Brock just beyond him, standing with his hand on the doorknob.

"She has spirit," Brock said. "I like a woman with spirit." He bowed his head to me again, as he pulled the door open and left in a swirl of long dark coattails. Duncan raced after him, while I melted to the floor in a puddle of shock, terror and confusion.

I didn't tell Dara any of this. I can't talk about it. I couldn't even bring myself to ask Duncan about it when he came back into the apartment. I keep thinking that if I don't talk about it, I will wake up and find it has all been a nightmare. I'm definitely in denial, and I remember a slogan I saw on a t-shirt. _Queen of Denial,_ it read under a bust of Cleopatra. That's me - Queen of Denial. Guess I'll have to get one of those shirts.

Though my mind has blocked out most of what happened after Duncan returned, I do remember him taking me into his arms. I remember him, holding me and rubbing my back. I think I asked him who Brock was - at least I know I should have asked - but maybe I just remember that the thought crossed my mind.

I seem to remember that he explained Brock was an old adversary - someone from his past who arrived without advanced notice. I guess old adversaries are prone to do that, but I don't have any, so I don't really know what such a person might do.

I remember little spikes of anger sifting in through all of this. I should have been angry. After all, my home was invaded. I was frightened half out of my wits. And whatever strange things Duncan is involved in have finally spilled over into my life. But I couldn't seem to find the strength to be angry. My anger floated just out of reach, like a piece of driftwood on a storm-tossed sea. I couldn't get a firm grip on it and I drowned in my confusion instead.

Before I could regain contact with the thinking part of my brain, Duncan made love to me. That was my undoing. It always is. The flames of our passion devour any logical thoughts I might have. Each time I begin to analyze our relationship, he must sense it, and I suspect making love to me is his defense. The shimmering glow that remains afterward serves as a barrier to conscious thought, and I can no longer remember my objections - until they lift their heads again in the harsh light of his absence. When he returns he takes me around through the dizzying cycle of awareness and blind desire, once again. I'm lost in him - quite lost.

. 

"I'm worried about you, kiddo," Dara says, shaking me out of my reverie once again.

_I'm worried about myself._ I told her about meeting Brock, but I left out the detail of finding him in my apartment - the detail that makes the whole episode a lot more sinister than if told without it. I don't want her to worry about me. _I_ don't want to worry about me. I really want my life back on even keel - with Duncan on board, of course - but as the _Rolling Stones_ sang, "You can't always get what you want."

"Worrying is a waste of effort," I tell her. "It never accomplishes anything."

"No," she replies, "but maybe it's time you did accomplish something. Maybe it's time you and Duncan had a long serious talk."

I hate it when someone else points out the obvious solution. I keep telling myself this very same thing, but if I do that I risk losing him - he's been dropping hints that he's having second thoughts about involving me in his life. But even after the incident with Brock, I'm not ready to take that risk. Still I know that I will have to do something, and I will have to do it soon, before I lose contact with who I am. I'm not sure which is worse losing him or losing me.

"He's coming over for dinner tonight," I say, wondering whether I will summon up the courage to confront him. "I'll talk to him then." Easy enough to say, sitting here far away from Duncan's intoxicating presence - sitting here in Pete's Paradise Cove fortified with Pete's Paradise Punch. I wonder if they sell this stuff to go.


	9. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 9

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 9

Brock's face split by a crocodile smile flickers in the background behind hazy shimmering images of Duncan, while I stand behind thick glass, and pound my fists against it in frustration. The glass prevents Duncan from hearing me, but no matter how thick it is it can not protect me from the faceless fear that slithers and writhes before me. None of it makes any sense. 

I wake up with a start, my heart pounding in my chest. Cool night air dusts my back and shoulders. As I reach instinctively for the blanket awareness sets in, and stinging nettles of panic shower over me. I am alone - Duncan has gone. 

I turn and reach for his side of the bed. It still radiates the warmth of his body, still bears the tantalizing scent of him. I bury my face in his pillow for a second to fill the burning need, to capture every trace of him. Hot heavy pulses of desire pound my inner core to mush. I fumble for the lamp in the dark.

A flash of relief merges with the desire. His clothes are draped over the chair. He must have picked them up because, as I recall, we left most of our clothes strewn across the floor on our way to the bedroom last night. The door is closed, but his sweat pants are missing from the hook on the back. Maybe he couldn't sleep.

The deep pile of the carpet tickles the soles of my bare feet as I step out of bed and pad across the room. From the other hook, I grab a turquoise silk kimono - a gift from Duncan - then slip into it as I step into the hall. The cool slick cloth slides along my arms and I shiver as it clings to my skin.

"Duncan," I whisper. Why, I have no idea - there's no one else here but us. The hallway is dark and something about the dark demands hushed tones, so I whisper.

Up ahead, a spill of pale moonlight pushes away the curtain of night as it streams in through the living room drapes, and I remember we talked about how wonderful the moon looked earlier as we admired it from my balcony - a full looming Hunter's Moon. We talked about the moon - we did not talk about our relationship - I choked on it again.

As I round the corner, I see him standing in front of the sliding glass doors. Silver light defines his form as it brushes over his long hair and broad shoulders. He doesn't turn away. I can't tell whether he is so lost in thought he can't hear me, or whether he is simply waiting for me to join him. He does that quite frequently. He waits, calm, motionless, silent. Sometimes, he watches me, like when we're playing chess or after we make love, and I have no idea what thoughts slide through his mind at such times. I once tried the _penny for your thoughts_ maneuver, and he just laughed. "I'd be guilty of price gouging," was his answer.

Dancing away as always. He's a master of the dance, my Duncan - both on the floor and in the mind. Ask him a question and he spins away on a cushion of air, but with such finesse he makes you forget what you wanted to know in the first place.

He turns his head and smiles as I reach his side. "Did I wake you?" he asks, welcoming me into the shelter of his arm.

"I had a bad dream," I answer, wrapping my arm around his waist.

The warm soft touch of his back sends delicious shimmers along my arm. I lean my head against his bare chest, then taking a deep breath, I let the scent of him - not the faint trace from his pillow but the real thing - fill me. His favorite brand of soap, mingles with the musky spice of his skin and leaves me breathless, drunk with need. I'll never get a serious discussion off the ground with him standing next to me like this. I don't know why I even try. 

He pulls me closer, and presses a kiss in my hair, drawing me deeper into his enchantment. _You can't go on like this,_ a tiny voice whispers from deep in my brain - tiny but insistent.

His chest rises as he inhales deeply. "I shouldn't have done this," he says quietly, sending ripples of alarm through my heart. "I shouldn't have dragged you into my world."

"What's done is done," I say. "We can't go back and change it, now."

"No," he says, with an air of resignation, "but we don't have to go on."

I know where this conversation is streaming, and I swallow the hard lump of panic as I scramble to staunch the flow. "Duncan, if you're in trouble ... maybe I can help. I have a friend who works at the Justice Department, maybe--"

He laughs softly as he holds me tighter. "It's not what you think," he says.

Annoyed at his presumption, I pull away far enough to look at his face. "And what do I think?"

He eases me around to face him, then he brushes the hair back from my face. The moonlight freezes his features into a abstract of shadows and light. He touches my brow, the tip of my nose, my mouth with achingly soft kisses. He caresses my jaw with his thumbs as he gazes deep into my eyes for a fleeting moment. He sighs, then draws me into his arms again.

"You think it's something that can be fixed by a conversation with legal authorities," he says. "It can't ... It can't be fixed, because it's not broken. It's just the way things are." 

I lift my head from his chest to look at him again. "Duncan, I'm trying to understand all this ... this whole business with Brock ... and your reluctance to talk about whatever you're involved in ... but I can't do it if you won't trust me. Whatever it is you don't have to worry about me ... I'm not going to run to the police or the Eyewitness news team. I just want to help you."

"You can't," he whispers, then he seeks my mouth for another kiss.

Summoning every ounce of willpower I can muster, I push him away. "Duncan, don't do that. I can't think straight when you're kissing me." Forcing myself, I turn away. I rest my hand on the cold glass of the door, and use the sensation to focus.

Behind me, he laughs softly. I let the luscious sound wash over me, then press my hand into the glass to hold on, to keep myself from getting sucked under again.

"You can't just keep me in the dark. If there is a harsh reality to face I need to know what it is."

His silence chills me far more than the touch of the cold glass.

"You'd think after four--" he says, halting. I can almost hear him bite his tongue. "After all this time, I'd learn."

_After four what?_ That was a slip, What was he going to say? Four women, perhaps? Four wives? There have to have been other women in his life. I know about Tessa, but what of the others? I wonder if one of the women in his past has hurt him deeply ... that might explain his reluctance to let me get close. I can understand those protective walls, I've built a few myself.

"Learn what?" I ask.

He puts his hands on my shoulders - two pools of warmth, luring me away from the cold focus. "That I can't live a normal life like other men."

"Maybe, you can ... if you let me help you."

"It's not that simple," he says. "There's nothing you can do that would change anything."

"I can stand by you, if you let me," I answer.

"You could get hurt," he says.

I turn around to face him, to let him know I mean what I'm about to say. "Maybe I think you're worth the risk."

He shakes his head, a slow forlorn motion, then he steps away to pace a short track. He runs his hand through his hair. "You don't know even know what the risk is."

"That's exactly my point. Duncan, I want to be with you no matter what. I don't know what you're mixed up in, but I figure it's something serious. At the same time, I know ... I can feel it in my heart ... that you're a good man - so whatever it is that's got you by the throat ... I figure you must, at least, have good intentions. Whatever it is _I'm_ in too deep, already ... Duncan, I don't want to lose you ... I love you."

He turns his head to look at me. His eyes widen. Damn ... I didn't mean to say that. I wanted to save it for a special moment. The last thing I wanted to do was blurt it out in the middle of an argument.

"Don't," he says softly - so softly I'm not sure I heard him.

"Don't what?"

"Don't love me ... it could get you killed."

I don't know whether it's the words he used, or the tone of his voice, or the expression on his face, but the force of that simple statement forces me back against the doors. After the incident with Brock, the danger should have been clear, but I guess I'd pushed it to the back of my mind. I chose not to think about it, but now he has thrown it out in the open. It looms between us ... too big to grasp.

I search his face, his eyes. He's deadly serious. He's not being overly dramatic. He means what he said. I remember a Chinese proverb ... _be careful what you wish for - you might get it._

When I first met Duncan, I remember being bored with my life. I longed for a little excitement, a thrill with a hint of danger. I wanted something to knock me off my safe platform of complacency and I thought he could do it. Well, it looks like he has, and I've landed hard on my butt in the middle of it. Up to my armpits in alligators. And possibly I got more than I bargained for.

I'm numb. My mouth opens, and I'm making some kind of sounds, but I don't recognize any of them as words. You tell a man you love him ... you don't expect he will tell you it can get you killed. "Duncan ... I--'

Before I can say anymore, he wraps trembling arms around me and holds me close. "I can't do this again," he whispers into my hair. 

The slight catch in his voice tears at my heart. Has he lost someone else to whatever shadowy business he's involved in? Tessa? No, Tessa had died the victim of a mugging - that's what Richie told me. What can't he do again?

"Why did you?" I ask. Why ... not what ... it's an easier question to ask.

"Why did I what?"

"Get involved with me ... get involved again ... that's what you meant, isn't it?"

Keeping one arm around my waist, he releases his hold, then lifts my chin with a curl of fingers from his other hand. "You were smart, and cute and you made me laugh," he says. "And most of all because you make me remember the beauty of things I'd forgotten."

With gentle pressure he turns me to face the doors, then he pulls me back against him ... back into his embrace. "I can't remember the last time I even thought about the moon. But tonight you let me see it through your eyes, and it was new again. I was young again ... seeing it for the first time."

Not exactly what I'd hoped for. My punctured ego deflates and erupts in a giggle.

"What's so funny?" he asks. Not exactly the reaction _he_ expected, I guess.

I turn to face him again, then run my hands up his chest. I clasp them behind his neck. "I'd kind of hoped you would say I was the most devastatingly beautiful woman you'd ever met, and that I just swept you off your feet."

Now it's his turn to laugh. "You underestimate yourself," he says.

I'll leave it at that. I'm not going to ask him to explain. "I just want you to be happy," I say instead. "I want to make you happy."

"You do," he says, "but that's not the point. I shouldn't have dragged you into my world."

We're back to that again. I'd hoped we'd gotten past that ... apparently we haven't. I sift through my presumptions and sense there is something more than just the danger he is concerned about.

"Duncan ... I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to tell you I can't live without you. I'm a survivor, I guess, because I know if you leave, somehow I'll pick up the pieces and move on. But I don't want to ... I don't want to live without you. Whatever happens, I want us to be together."

He flinches - a minute flash of reaction - gone before I can study it, then he reaches behind his head to unclasp my hands. He holds them in his for a moment, then he kisses them. 

"What did I say ... what's wrong?"

"Deja vu," he answers. "That's exactly what Anne said."

"Who's Anne?"

"Doesn't matter ... it didn't work out that way. When she found out ... she decided that being with me wasn't what she wanted after all. I'm not going through that again. You won't understand ... you can't."

"What about Tessa, Duncan ... did she know ... did she understand?"

He flinches again as though I'd slapped him. Immediately, I regret the question, but I can't take it back. I reach up to touch his face, but he turns away.

"Yes," he answers quietly. "But it was all different then ... less complicated somehow."

I step closer and rest my hand lightly on his back. "I'm not Tessa, Duncan ... but I'm not Anne either. Do you think it's fair to prejudge me because she hurt you."

"You're jumping to conclusions," he says with a sigh. "It's not like that at all."

"Duncan, if you don't talk to me ... if you don't explain, jumping to conclusions is the only option you've left open for me. Unless of course, you count wild speculation."

"You don't know what you're asking," he says, letting his breath out in a sigh.

Those words have a final ring to them. He's not going to tell me. I turn away from him, and walk back to the terrace doors. I rest my head against the cold glass and face the cold reality as I fight tears of frustration. No matter how much I want it, this relationship will never work with all these secrets between us. The question now is what do I do about it.

Do I hold on, knowing it probably will never go deeper than it is now? Do I accept whatever crumbs fall my way because I may never again find a man who stirs my blood and makes my soul sing quite the way Duncan does? Or do I chalk it up as a loss, and settle for one of those nice but ordinary men who can't tell a ripe cantaloupe from an unripe one?

I sense him moving behind me. He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me back, but I resist. If he's leaving, I don't want it to be anymore painful than it is. 

"I need some time to think," he says quietly. 

He gives up trying to hold me close. He moves his hands to my shoulders. The touch of his thumbs caressing the back of my neck, tempt me to give up my stance. I cross my arms over my chest, but it doesn't help. It doesn't grant me any more courage.

"I think I'll go to the island for a couple of days ... give us both time to think."

I take a deep breath to pull myself in - to hold on. "Fine ... whatever," is about all I can think of to say.

He kisses my neck. "I'll call you," he whispers in my ear. Then all the warmth vanishes and the cold stakes its claim as he leaves.

I can't move from the window. I hear him moving around behind me, I can't watch him go. I may never see him again, but I can't watch him leave. 

"I'll call you in a couple of days," he says from across the room.

I stare out the doors, stare at the moon. It seems to mock me as I try to swallow this planet-sized lump in my throat. "Good bye, Duncan," I say, struggling to keep my voice from breaking. But I don't think he heard me because at the same time, I hear the door shut softly.


	10. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 10

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 10

I should have remembered - Duncan MacLeod is a man of his word. After five miserable days, during which I alternately hoped and despaired, he called.

"I have some things to take care of this afternoon," he said, as though everything was normal. "I'll pick you up at six."

"Are we going somewhere?" I asked, still in shock that he called.

"The play ... it's tonight, isn't it? _A Streetcar Named Desire_ ... You said, your friend from aerobics class is playing Stella."

Angie's play ... I had forgotten. Tonight _is_ opening night, and we had planned to go see it. "Yes, it's tonight," I said.

"Then I'll pick you up at six ... we can get something to eat, first."

Why do I feel like I've missed something? I'm Rip Van Winkle waking up after a hundred year nap. Everyone is going around taking care of business, but I'm totally confused. The safest thing to do is to play along. "Okay," I answered. "I'll see you at six."

All evening long, he's been wrestling with something. I can sense it. I can see it in his eyes, though he rarely lets them meet mine. I suspect he's trying to let me down gently, but I'd rather he just do it and get it over with. Yanking a Band-Aid off with one swift tug, hurts a lot, but it's better than the torture of doing it slowly. 

I'm beginning to think maybe it's better when a guy you've been seeing just stops calling. My mother used to sing a song by Neal Sedaka - _Breaking Up is Hard to Do_ - I think she gave it a 5 on the Bandstand scale. And Neal was right - it is hard to do, no matter how you do it - no matter which side of the break you're on.

Duncan takes my hand as we stroll out of the theater, trailing the small crowd. "Your friend's a pretty good actress," he says.

"I thought so," I answer, wondering when that sword's going to fall - that Sword of Damocles that's been hanging over my head. "Angie's had some walk-ons, but this is her first starring role. She's been trying to save money to go to New York - that's why she's teaching aerobics."

In front of the theater, the crowd disperses quickly. Cheerful voices echo all around us, then fade into the night. He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close to him. I savor every moment, as I reconsider having that Band-Aid yanked off - maybe slow is better.

"Do you mind walking?" he asks. "I'd go get the car, but this isn't the safest neighborhood in the city. I don't want to leave you here alone."

I glance at the dirty graffiti-marred bricks of the boarded up building across the way, and at the backs of the other theater-goers as they scurry off in all directions. Given the choice of walking a few blocks with Duncan at my side, or standing here alone for ten or fifteen minutes, I choose to walk. I'd probably choose to walk anyway, even though he apparently thinks I'm so delicate, I'll faint from the effort. His misplaced sense of chivalry is riding free again. 

"It's a nice night, I don't mind walking," I answer.

"It's getting cold, though," he says. He stops to pull up the collar on my coat, then wraps his arm around me as we walk. "Want to stop for some coffee? Maybe, that little coffee house on the square that you like?"

"Sure," I answer as we round the corner.

He's setting me up, I can feel it. That's where he'll tell me it's over. I've already made up my mind. I will not plead. I will not grovel. If he wants out of this relationship, he'll take a large chunk of my heart with him, so I'll need to hang on to my dignity. It may be the only thing I have left to hold me together. A sudden chill catches me by surprise and I shiver.

"Cold?" he asks.

Actually, I'm not. I'm not sure what that was. A shiver of apprehension because I'm about to get dumped? Perhaps. Or perhaps I just don't like the looks of this street. Most of the lamps are out and suddenly I'm seeing things in the murky shadows.

One of the things I'm seeing moves out from a recessed doorway ... out of the shadows and into our path. "Well, well, well ... look what we have here." he croons. 

Tall, skinny, with greasy blonde hair, the punk slides the edge of an open switchblade knife along his palm. The blade glints in the weak glow of the one street lamp that remains lit a few feet behind him. Shadows mask most of his face, but when he grins, his teeth add contrast, and I notice the ones on the right side of his mouth are missing. His torn and dirty jacket bears the colors of one of the local gangs. I don't keep up with that stuff so I don't know which one, but I've seen their signature skull mingling with graffiti on walls all over town.

Duncan nudges me behind him cautiously. "We don't want any trouble," he says, in a soft voice. It's a plea, but one with a definite undertone of menace. "And you don't either, so just let us pass."

"Trouble," the punk says with a cackle. "Man, I live for trouble. You might say it's my ... oc-cu-pation." He drags the syllables out slowly as he steps closer slicing the air with his knife to emphasize his point.

Duncan eases his feet apart and rebalances his weight as he squeezes my hand for a moment, then he releases it. I feel like an idiot, but I can't think. I grab a handful of his leather coat, then a random flash of clarity makes me realize I'm restricting his movement. I let go, and as I take a step back, I see the punk's gaze flicker to a spot behind my head ... too late. Strong arms encircle my waist from behind.

Duncan whirls around. "You don't want to do that," he cautions, but the first punk jumps him from behind. I'm on my own - at least temporarily.

I swing my elbow back and feel it connect with something hard. It wasn't a conscious action - merely a reflex rooted in self preservation - and I regret it instantly. 

"Oh ... you wanna play rough," a harsh voice rasps in my ear.

The second punk jerks me around. He slaps me across the face with the back of his hand, then slams me against the building. I swallow a surge of nausea and the salty taste of my own blood as he clutches my throat with one hand and grabs my purse with the other. A warm rush of satisfaction assuages my fear momentarily as I note the dribble of blood flowing down his chin from a split in his lip.

"Hey Joey," he says leering at me - brown eyes wide, pupils dilated. "This bitch's got balls ... I like that ... can I have her?"

"Shut up, you fool," Joey answers.

_Oh great._ He's high on something, and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, either. I chance a glance in that direction - long enough to see Joey and Duncan crouched into fighting stances as they circle each other a few feet away.

Joey's partner is focusing on the meager contents of my purse. It's a small one and the only things of value I have in it are my Visa card, my driver's license and about twenty bucks. I'm not even wearing any jewelry that's worth anything except my grandmother's ring. I don't remember when I slipped it off and into the finger of my glove, but it's safely stowed in my pocket. They are going to be disappointed in the take, and probably ticked off as well.

My mind is working strangely and I feel oddly disconnected from the fear that holds some other part of me hostage. Keeping my back to the building, I take a step to the side very slowly. If I can get away, Duncan is a martial arts expert - he can hold them off long enough for me to get help. And he can concentrate without having me to worry about.

My assailant is too busy thumbing through the bills he has pulled out of my purse to notice I've moved. Emboldened, I take another step. His hand lashes out, and he grabs my arm. "Where you think you're going, bitch?" he hisses.

Suddenly the whole scene jumps into fast forward. Frame by frame the action clicks by too fast for me to assimilate it. Duncan and Joey grapple for the knife. My attacker spins me around.

Some of the self-defense tactics, I learned years ago flash through my mind - more instinct, than clear thought. We struggle. Duncan forces Joey to his knees. He holds his fist poised for a blow.

Then the sharp report of a gun reverberates off the building walls.

A cold spear of dread strikes deep in the pit of my stomach. We slip into slow motion - freeze frame mode. Duncan reels, then falls backwards to the sidewalk. Joey stands, a gun held loosely in his hand.

The punk holding me, releases his grip. "Oh shit, you shot him, man!" he shouts.

Somewhere above us, the rumble of a window opening startles us into a bizarre tableaux.

"Hey, what's going on down there?" a voice drifts down from above.

My mind is numb, but my feet are moving - backing me away from the terror.

"Go ... get outta here," Joey says to his pal as he moves toward me slowly. He raises the hand with the gun.

"But you shot him," the other one wails.

I turn and run. The sound of two pair of sneakers slapping against the pavement follows me. I sense the sound of the gun almost before the echo of the shot reaches my ear. I dive head first into a picket of garbage cans standing guard at the entrance to an alley. The shot pings off one just above my head. I pull myself into a ball and pray he can't get a clear shot.

"Go," Joey shouts. 

"Hey, what about the bitch, man?"

The footfalls come closer. I cringe waiting for the inevitable.

"Fuck her," Joey shouts, and the footfalls pass me, then fade away.

Silence reigns.

I sit up slowly, dizzy, gorge rising in my throat. Fear snaking around me, holding me fast. I turn my head and look around. _Duncan! Oh my god, Duncan!_

I run to him, drop to my knees at his side. He lies there pale, motionless. The red stain of his blood already covers most of his white silk shirt. I press my hand on his chest in a crazed effort to stop the bleeding. "Oh, Duncan, please don't die," I cry. 

Deep within me some small part of my brain is still functioning, but it's voice is very weak. It remembers that I took a first aid course in college. But even if I could remember one bit of it, we didn't learn anything to cope with this. With tears streaming down my face and the tiny voice urging me on, I lean my cheek near his mouth, hoping to feel some small current of air, but he's not breathing. Mumbling long forgotten prayers, I feel for a pulse at his throat, but I can't even find a trace. _This can't be happening._

"Oh god, this can't be happening!" I clutch my hair with my hands and fight the towering waves of hysteria. The tiny voice fades like a radio losing a signal. 

Trying to recapture it, I rock back and forth. I have to hold on. If Duncan has any chance, I have to think - and think clearly. I remember to breathe ... a long deep slow breath. The tiny voice returns and with it a small measure of calm. I remember ... what do I remember? A phone booth! I saw a phone booth on the corner!

I lift my head to look around. Yes ... there it is. I'm torn. I can't leave Duncan, but I can't help him if I don't. I force myself to stand. One step at a time. I find the strength to run.

What if it doesn't work? Most of the public phones in this part of the city don't. I whisper another prayer as I reach for the receiver. My hand shakes as I lift it, and relief floods through me as I hear the drone of a dial tone. 

Now, what's the number? I've heard it a million times, but now I need it, I can't remember it. My finger trembles, hesitating over the numbered buttons, then the memory emerges slowly - 911. I manage to touch the right buttons in the right order. How, I don't know. A woman's voice answers after just one ring. 

"What is the nature of the emergency?" she asks.

"H-he's been shot ... they shot Duncan," I stammer. A faint stirring of anger - anger at those punks - anger at myself for falling apart - shakes me into clearer thought. I remember to breathe again. 

"Are you in danger?" she asks, softly, calmly but with a reassuring tinge of urgency. "Is the shooter still in the vicinity?"

"I don't think so ... they ran."

Anticipating her next question, I look around for a street sign.

"Where are you?" she asks.

They can trace the call, but I guess it's faster if I tell them. Just that rational thought bolsters my spirits. I'm thinking ... I can do this. "Third off Piedmont ... in the middle of the block," I tell her.

"Stay calm," she says. "Stay with him ... don't leave unless you're in danger. We'll have someone there as quickly as we can."

_Leave? How can I leave?_ They shot Duncan. Images of the obscenely large blood stain on his shirt fill my mind. The receiver slips out of my hand. It's slick with blood. His blood. And so are my hands. Leaving the receiver dangling from its cord, I race back to his side.

He hasn't moved. I sink down to my knees, and lift his hand to my cheek. His skin is cool where it touches mine. I feel so useless. I should be doing something, but I don't know what. Mouth to mouth resuscitation? I don't know where to begin. I clutch his hand to my heart as though I can transfer my life force to him. I hear the faint wail of a siren in the distance. "Oh please hurry," I whisper 

I reach down to cradle his head in my lap, but before I can get my hands under his head, his eyes snap open ... wide open. He gasps - a loud rasping sound. Coughing, he pushes himself up.

For a moment, I can't move. I can't believe what I'm seeing. _He's alive!_ "Oh god, you're alive," I shout. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and try to hold him close, but he's coughing, and struggling to get up.

He winces as he focuses on my face. "Looks like it," he says, smiling at me through another wince. The sirens grow louder as the ambulance ... or a police car gets closer. His eyes grow wide, and a look of alarm flashes in their depths.

"Help me up," he says. "We have to get out of here." He leans on my shoulder to give himself leverage.

He must be in shock. I tug on his jacket to pull him back down. "Duncan, don't move ... you've been shot."

He slips his hand under my arm and tugs in the opposite direction. "Come on," he says. "I don't have time to explain, but we've got to get out of here."

He wins the tug of war, and I stand next to him. He's bent over, his face contorted with pain, and he's clutching his jacket over his chest. This is insane. I put my arm around his shoulders, and try to remember what you're supposed to do with someone who's in shock, but my memory fails. "Duncan, please lie down ... the ambulance will be here in a minute."

"That's why we have to go," he says, pulling away from me. 

Despite the gunshot wound in his chest, he's stronger than I am. He takes my hand and tows me after him. Where is he getting the strength? I saw that wound, and I struggle with a wave of nausea as I remember the look of it - it was nearly the size of my fist. I force the memory out of my mind as I grapple with my present problem - how to stop him from leaving before the ambulance gets here.

It has to be shock - I remember reading that people in shock can be very strong. Must be the adrenaline rush or something. I quicken my pace so I can get in front of him. "Duncan, please ... if you're worried about the police ... and whatever you're involved in, it doesn't matter, you need help."

Wincing again, he stands straighter as he grasps my shoulders with both hands. He looks at me with a desperate gleam of pleading in his soulful dark eyes. "I need you to trust me, please," he says. "I'll be fine, but we have to leave ... now."

_Fine_ - that word again. He uses it like a magic wand ... just wave it and everything will be right again. Why do I believe him? What do I see in those dark brown depths that is so convincing? I don't know, except that I want to believe him. I want to know that everything will be fine. Numbly, I nod. I can think of nothing else, but to agree. He takes my arm and we race down the street and around the corner to where he parked the car.

He pulls his keys from his pocket, and holds them out to me. "Can you drive?" he asks, leaning against the car. "I don't know if I can manage."

He should be on oxygen. Connected to a heart monitor with a saline drip running into his arm, and he's worried about whether he can drive. I take the keys - of course, I'll drive.

I feel oddly disconnected from reality and a misplaced sense of calm settles over me, as we get in. I start the engine and pull away from the curb as though we are going on a Sunday drive.

"Go to the dojo," he says. "It's closer, than your place. You can take Market to Grand."

Typical man ... put him in the passenger seat and he starts issuing driving instructions. I know where I'm going ... and it's not to the dojo.

"You missed the turn," he says swiveling his head to check the street sign.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did - that was Grand," he says, turning back. "You're going the wrong way."

"No, I'm not."

Without warning, he reaches over, turns the key in the ignition, and yanks it out. Responding without thinking, I steer the car toward the curb.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, clutching the keys in his fist.

"What do you think _you're_ doing ... you could get us killed pulling a stunt like that. What if there was someone behind us?"

"I told you to go to the dojo," he says. "And it's that way." He waves his hand with the thumb extended toward the back of the car.

I dig deep for some of that calm I found before. How do you reason with a person in an obvious state of shock? Using tender care, I stroke his hair back from his face. 

"Duncan, you're not thinking. You need to go to the hospital."

But as the words leave my mouth, I realize that he's amazingly healthy-looking for someone who was mortally wounded a short time ago. I'm sure my eyes must be playing tricks on me, or maybe it's the lighting. But the color has returned to his face. He's no longer breathing heavily, nor grimacing in pain. He looks calm - a little ticked off perhaps because I'm not following orders - but calm, as though nothing untoward has happened.

He takes my hand in his, then he places a gentle kiss in my palm. "Please," he says. "You have to trust me." He holds up the keys. "Can I trust you to go back to the dojo?"

"But Duncan, you're--"

He interrupts my protest by dangling the keys in front of me ... by dangling his trust as well. The question is clear in his eyes. _Can I trust you?_ he's asking and it goes far beyond the question at hand. He's asking me to prove myself worthy of his trust. With serious doubts about my sanity, I accept his challenge. I hold out my hand.

His eyes search mine for a long moment, then slowly he places the keys and his trust in my hand. As I slip the key back into the ignition, he crosses his arms over his chest, leans his head back, then he closes his eyes.

I'm in command. The decision is mine to make. He's left his fate in my hands.

I check for traffic in the rearview mirror, glance over my shoulder to make sure no other cars are coming, then I make an illegal u-turn ... and pray that he knows what he's doing.


	11. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 11

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 11

"Park in the alley," Duncan says in a solid, steady voice as we approach the dojo.

I'm still waiting for him to pass out from loss of blood and shock, but as he keeps insisting - he's fine. Maybe, I'm the one who's in shock. Maybe, I'm hallucinating. Maybe, this is all some bizarre nightmare. _Wake up,_ I order myself as I turn into the alley and stop the car.

I don't park it - I stop it - just hit the brake and turn the ignition off. If this is just a dream - why go through the bother of parking correctly. Duncan glances over at me with a flicker of concern in his eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

I smile at him. "I'm fine," I say. Hey - why not? It works for him

"No, you're not," he says, then he opens the door. He gets out and walks around to the driver's side, then he opens my door and holds his hand out to me. "Come on, let's get you inside."

I put my hand in his, and get out of the car. His hand is warm - mine is cold and still bears traces of blood. His blood. He leans in to take the keys from the ignition, then he slips his arm around my waist as he closes the door.

My knees quiver as we mount the stairs to the loft, yet he walks tall and his steps are sure - this man who was lying on a sidewalk in a pool of his own blood less than fifteen minutes ago. He seems fine, but my legs have the strength of overcooked spaghetti.

Inside the loft, he takes my coat off. Holding both my hands in one of his, he smoothes the hair back from my face. "Your hands are like ice," he says smiling at me. He rubs them between his for a moment, then he presses a kiss on my fingers. Towing me, he crosses the room to the couch. It doesn't take much effort on his part to get me to sit. A little gentle pressure on my shoulders does the trick.

"I'll get you a drink to warm you up," he says. 

_I'd rather you warm me up,_ I think as I watch him cross to the cabinet where he keeps the liquor. Now that's a comforting thought - my mind may be gone, but at least my libido still works. 

I smile as he hands me a glass half-filled with amber liquid - but no ice. Actually, I'm probably grinning like an idiot, because he is looking at me with a strange light in his eyes. He probably thinks I've gone mad - I sure do.

"Drink that," he says. "You'll feel better." 

Staring down into the glass, I nod. I'm just going to let this play out. I've been assaulted by a hoodlum. Watched the man I love get shot. Narrowly missed getting shot myself. Then I watched a mortally-wounded man get up and walk around as though nothing has happened. I have no idea, if I'm dreaming ... or awake and insane. I think maybe I'd rather not know.

"It will just take me a minute to change and clean up a bit," he says, crouching down in front of me. "Will you be all right?"

Again, I nod. What can I say? I don't think I'm qualified to judge whether I'm all right or not. But as he stands up, I can see the blood stain on his shirt. How odd - it seems almost dry as though he's no longer bleeding. But how can that be?

"I'll be right back ... I promise," he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze as he heads for the bathroom.

He will be back. I know he will. Duncan MacLeod is a man of his word.

I take a mouthful of old, very smooth, unblended whiskey and savor the rich peaty taste before I close my eyes and let the fire of it warm me. The sensation is way too realistic for a dream. After a time I hear Duncan moving around behind me, opening and closing drawers. I don't know how long I've sat here drinking, but the glass is empty. 

Barefoot, dressed in clean jeans and a white cotton shirt, he sets a small basin on the table, then he takes the empty glass from my hand and sets it on the table as well. I feel like all this is happening on a stage and I'm watching from the last row of the balcony. He takes a wet washcloth from the basin. With it he swabs the blood from my hands and face with a gentle touch.

"Your sweater is a mess," he says, as he hands me one of his shirts. "You might want to change into this."

I look down at my sweater. He's right. It was periwinkle blue. Now it's periwinkle blue with dark rust-colored splotches arranged in an abstract pattern that vaguely resembles an ink blot test - not at all attractive. I pull it off over my head, then slip my arms into the shirt while Duncan pours more whiskey into two glasses. The cotton shirt is soft and warm, and smells like him. It provides a safe cocoon of comfort. 

I hold the sweater in my hands and run my thumb over the blood stains. They're still damp in some spots with dry crusty edges - tangible proof of what I think I saw. I don't really believe I'm dreaming, and I hope I haven't gone insane, but I can find no logical explanation for what happened after I returned from calling 911.

Duncan trades me a glass of whiskey for the sweater. I surrender it willingly. Sitting down next to me on the couch, he takes a long swallow of his whiskey. He stares down at the glass, which he holds in both hands while his forearms rest on his knees. 

"I really missed you while I was away," he says, in a quiet voice while he rotates the glass between his hands. "I decided that maybe you were right ... maybe I should tell you all you need to know about me. And I planned to do it tonight."

He turns his head to smile at me. "It's a bit difficult to explain," he says. "And I thought you might need a demonstration, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

_A demonstration? What is he talking about? What demonstration?_ I search his eyes for clues, but can find none. I glance down at the glass in my hand. It doesn't share any secrets either. I lift the glass to my mouth, but the thought of drinking any more whiskey - especially without ice - makes me queasy. "I don't think I want this," I say handing him the glass.

He takes it, then he sets both my glass and his on the table. Sliding his left leg up onto the couch, he turns to sit facing me. As he does, his unbuttoned shirt falls open to reveal his chest. I can't help staring - nothing unusual - every inch of his lean-muscled body is stare bait - but this is different. 

The area just over his heart - the area where I know I saw an ugly gunshot wound - is unmarred. Unscarred. As perfect as it was the last time we made love. My hand trembles as I reach out to touch him, and I suspect he left the shirt open for just this purpose. 

He stretches one arm out along the back of the couch, rests his hand on my shoulder and twirls his fingers through my hair. Watching me with a cloaked expression, he sits still as I run my hand down his chest, searching for some sign of injury. 

The muscles are firm under my hand. The skin is smooth, unbroken and the mat of hair tickles my palm. The warmth of his body and the silken texture of his chest hair under my hand sends hot pulses of desire racing deep within me. At the same time it sends chills sluicing down my spine. I think perhaps my body hasn't gotten the message that I've lost my mind.

"Duncan ... I saw ... how--" I can't seem to complete a sentence.

He takes my hand, presses a kiss into my palm, then he holds it against his chest. "You didn't imagine it - you saw, what you saw."

"But you were--"

He closes his eyes for a moment as he nods. "Dead ... yes."

"Duncan, I don't understand ... how can you--"

His chest rises under my hand as he takes a deep breath. "I'm Immortal," he says releasing the words with the breath.

He says it, flatly - like he's telling me he's Irish or Italian, or left-handed or color blind. It's not an explanation - it's a statement of fact. I've never had anyone tell me they were immortal before. I don't think I've ever met anyone who thought they might be. I don't know how to react.

"I-immortal?" I stammer, as the dictionary definition flashes through what's left of my mind. _Exempt from death_ - or something like that, as I recall. Perhaps, I misunderstood him.

"I can not die," he says, "not the way you, or other mortals can." His thumb makes soothing circles on the back of my hand.

"But Duncan, I saw the wound and the blood ... you were--"

"Dead. Yes, but for us, that kind of death is only temporary."

"Us?"

"I'm not alone," he says. "There are others ... other Immortals."

"O-others? But what are ..." 

I can't finish the question. I can't ask the man I love what kind of strange creature he may be. My mind refuses to accept that he can be anything other than my Duncan. In a flash of clarity, I realize it doesn't matter - I love him and nothing can change that.

"I'm human, like you," he says, answering the question without my having to ask it. "But I was born in the Highlands of Scotland over four hundred years ago. I was killed for the first time in a battle, but I came back to life - like I did tonight. The people of my clan ... my friends ... my family - they thought I was a demon in league with the devil. They cast me out. I didn't know what to think, but I knew they were wrong. I believed it was a miracle of some sort until I met Connor. He told me what I am, and he taught me how to survive as an Immortal."

I search his eyes as he is telling me this and I see a man who has accepted his fate - accepted it long ago. Yet at the same time I can sense the gnawing anguish he must have felt. He hides it well, but the pain is still with him, buried deep - it shimmers around him like an aura as he relives the moment. 

There's uncertainty in his eyes as well. It's even clearer than the pain. He's waiting for me to shrink away in horror. He expects me to reject him. But I couldn't even if I wanted to - my heart aches for him, and my eyes fill with tears. I free my hand so I can touch his cheek. "Oh Duncan," is all I can think of to say.

I can not grasp this Immortality of his. I can not grasp that he is over 400 years old. I still can not grasp watching him return from death before my eyes. All I know is that I want to help him forget the pain, then suddenly the realization hits me like a hundred car freight train flying down the express track - he's alive! Somehow I lost this important fact among all the emotional upheaval I've been through tonight. I thought he was dead, but now he's sitting here in front of me ... living ... breathing ... holding my hand. And he's _alive!_

A balloon of hot excitement builds within me until I think I will burst in a blinding flash. Uncontainable joy spins and spirals through me - red, blue, gold and silver pyrotechnic pinwheels of joy. My tears flow free, then the excitement explodes into irrepressible giggles.

I press both hands against my mouth to hold them in, but it's a futile effort. "Oh god, Duncan ... you're alive," I shout, pounding my fists into his shoulders before I pounce on him.

His eyes widen with a flash of alarm, then surprise as I jump into his lap. I plant rows of tiny kisses all over his face. And I guess laughter really is contagious, because his grin quickly dissolves into a flurry of laughter as well.

Holding his face in my hands, I gaze into his deep brown eyes. "You're alive, you son of a bitch," I say, still laughing. "I thought you were involved in some kind of weird covert operation. I thought you were going to leave me. I thought you were dead. But you're not ... you're alive ... and you're not going to leave me." Suddenly, I'm not so sure of that. "You're _not_ going to leave me - right?"

"I'm not going to leave you," he says, smiling, running his hands in gentle circles over my back. "Not as long, as you still want me."

_Not want him? How could I not want him?_ I lean back to study his face. "Duncan, I love you ... why would you think I don't want you?"

His smile fades, and he stops rubbing my back. He takes my hands in his and he stares at them a moment before answering. "I haven't told you all of it. There's more you need to know about me ... about Immortals. We-"

I slip my hand out of his grasp and place my fingers on his mouth. I don't want to hear it - not now. "Not tonight, Duncan. Save it ... tell me tomorrow. My brain is already overloaded, and I can't think anymore. I just want to feel. I want to hold you, I want you to hold me. I need to feel your arms around me ... to know you're really here. To know I'm not dreaming, that I'm not insane."

"I'm here, and you're not dreaming," he says. 

Pulling me into a tight embrace, he pushes the shirt off my shoulder as he trails kisses along my collar bone and up my throat. He rubs his nose against mine, then circles my mouth with tender kisses. I close my eyes and just revel in the sensations his very real hands and his very real lips are stirring within me.

"And you're not insane, either," he whispers, then he tugs the hair at my nape. 

I open my eyes and watch him smile. He touches the tip of my nose with his finger.

"You're a little crazy, if you want to get involved with an Immortal," he says, "but not insane."

"Duncan, I'm way too involved to back out, now ... besides, I love you." I push his shirt off his shoulders and lean in to claim his mouth for a kiss. "Maybe, you'd like me to prove it."

In a flash of movement, he scoops me up into his arms and stands. "I love you too," he says, kissing me as he carries me over to the bed. "Why don't we prove it together?"


	12. Move Over Mary Sue Chap 12

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

* * *

**Move over Mary Sue** - Chapter 12

I did something that next day that I have never done before. Something so out of character that Dara shouted, "way to go," when I told her about it, later. I couldn't fill in all the details, of course, because Duncan asked me to keep his secret, but I did tell her that he shared his secret with me. 

I assured her that I wasn't going to get arrested as an accomplice in some heinous crime, but I did not tell her that my life could be in danger - that she wouldn't understand unless I could explain. And as I said, I told her what I did.

Feeling a bit chagrined, I told her that little ole Ms. Responsibility called work to tell them she was sick, so she could spend the day in bed with her lover. 

Throughout that rainy Friday, Duncan and I made love, talked for hours, nibbling on fruit and cheese, then we nibbled on each other and made love again. When the fruit and cheese ran out, we called Mei Lin's Chinese take-out - because they deliver - and we ordered the same dishes we had the night of our first date. We fed each other with chopsticks and laughed ourselves silly when we spilled a whole container of rice in his bed, then we shared a shower, changed the sheets and put in some serious snuggle time.

Lying stretched out on the bed with a pile of pillows propped behind him, Duncan held me nestled next to him while he sketched out 400 years of his history. He told me all about the Game, the Gathering and how there can be only one Immortal left in the end. He told me about sword fights, Quickenings and the only way an Immortal can truly die - complete with gory details.

But one question still nagged at me, as it has since that night we talked about the moon and the nature of relationships. I drag my fingers slowly over the intriguing terrain of his bare chest while I work up the courage to broach the subject.

"Duncan," I say, "tell me about Anne." 

Immediately, his muscles tense. He stops moving his fingers in my hair. "There's nothing to tell," he says, quietly.

Without looking at his face, I can't decide if he's angry, annoyed or merely disturbed by my request. I should just let it go, but I can't - I need to know why she left him. It simply boggles my mind that a woman who was still breathing could leave Duncan MacLeod once she'd come to love him. I think maybe she didn't love him, yet I wonder how she could not.

I sit up, so I can see his face, study his expression. "I just want to know what happened between you," I say. "And why you're not together anymore."

He stares at me for a moment, sighs, then swings his legs over the bed as if to get up, but he doesn't. He just sits there with his back to me. "What difference does it make?" he asks. "It has nothing to do with us."

Encouraged by the fact that he hasn't left the bed, I kneel behind him. Laying my hands on his shoulders, I lean my cheek against his warm smooth back, then press a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. "I just want to know what went wrong, so I don't make the same mistakes."

"It wasn't about making mistakes. It just didn't work out that's all."

"But you said ... when she found out ... that she decided being with you wasn't what she wanted. Did you mean finding out you're Immortal? Because, now that I know, it hasn't changed how I feel about you. I don't care what happens - I want to be with you."

Shifting his shoulders, he turns to take me back under his arm. He stares into my eyes, while he traces the edge of my face with his fingers, then he rewards me with a tender kiss and settles my head against his shoulder. 

"Anne is a doctor," he says, taking my hand, lacing my fingers with his. "She's about saving lives, not taking them. I have to kill to survive, and sometimes I have to kill to save others from being killed. That's the way my life is. I tried to keep her out that part of it, but she saw me take another Immortal's head. I guess it was more than she'd bargained for. And ... she was pregnant - she had her baby to think about."

_Pregnant?_ "But Duncan ... you said, you couldn't--"

He shifts again, but this time he takes his arm away. "The baby wasn't mine," he says, with a tiny break in his voice. He rakes his fingers through his hair, then clasps his hands before him with his forearms resting on his knees and his head bowed.

"Before she got pregnant, she saw me die. I thought it was better to let her think I was dead, so I went to Paris. When a friend of mine convinced me I should tell her, and let her make her own decision, I called her."

"That must have been quite a shock for her," I say, wondering what it must be like to get a call from a dead lover - after you're pregnant with another man's child. I rest my fingertips on his shoulder - a light touch of support ... a gentle reminder that I'm still here. "At least, I got to see you come back ... I think that made it easier to believe."

"I guess," he says, shaking his head slowly, then exhaling deeply he drags his hand down his face.

The only other sound is the rhythmic ticking of the clock on his desk. He turns back to me, then sweeps a pensive glance over my face. "Do you want a drink?" he asks.

"Okay," I answer. I let my fingers slide down his arm as he stands, keeping the physical connection for as long as I can. "Is there any wine left?"

As he walks away, I tuck one leg under me, and lean back on my elbows. I can do nothing else but admire the way his taut muscles ripple over his back, his very cute butt, and down his long legs. I'm beginning to think like Dara, which makes me smile and wonder again how any women in her right mind could leave such a man.

He turns when he reaches the island counter in the kitchen area, then he holds up a dark green bottle for my inspection - my waiter for the evening, standing there in all his natural glory. "Looks like there's about one glassful left, and it's probably warm. Do you still want it?" he asks.

I smile and remind myself that he's talking about the wine. "Yes," I answer, meaning the wine ... and anything else he might offer.

He saunters back across the room, making a stop at the armoire opposite the couch to pour a drink for himself. He's taking his sweet time ... I think maybe he can read my thoughts, and maybe he's teasing me.

Standing next to the bed, he hands me the glass of wine, then he takes a long slow sip of his own drink. He watches me over the rim of his glass, but I have no idea what he's thinking. Sometimes his thoughts shine brightly on the surface of his expressive eyes, but other times - now, for instance - his thoughts lie buried, like treasure beneath deep dark waters.

He sets his glass down on the table beside the bed, then stalking me like a lion, he slinks across the rumpled sheets in one smooth sinuous motion. Bracing his weight on his hands, which he has set one on either side of my shoulders - he kisses my mouth with a quick tender touch, then he tucks a kiss in the hollow of my throat, and another between my breasts. 

I sigh with contentment and wonder what I'm going to do with a full glass of wine, but then he stops where he is. He turns his head to rest his cheek on my stomach, and slides his hand up to cup my left breast. There's no passion in his actions - not for the moment anyway. He comes to me as a child will to a mother's lap for the warmth and an affectionate hug.

Sipping my wine, I curl the fingers of my free hand into the strands of his long hair. It's silky soft like a kitten's coat, but the stubble of his day-old beard feels prickly against my skin, and the weight of his head pressing against my diaphragm makes it difficult to breathe. Still, I'm too enraptured by the harmony of the moment to object. Resting my arm across his broad shoulders, I take another sip of wine. I close my eyes and welcome the calm interlude to digest all that has happened in the last 48 hours.

I still can not get my mind to accept that this man, who looks only a few years past thirty, is over 400 years old. Though I saw him come back to life, I still can not grasp that he will only die if someone cuts off his head. That gruesome thought raises cold gooseflesh up and down my bare arms. 

I can't get my mind around the concept of this fighting to survive that must end in death - yet I have to understand. I have to find away to accept it - or at least find away to make it fit into a concept that I _can_ understand - survival of the fittest on a grand scale, perhaps. 

I don't want to be like Anne. I don't want to promise I will stay with him, and then find I can't live up to that promise. I love him too much to put him through that pain again - pain that fractured his voice when he spoke of the breakup with Anne. Somehow, I need to find the courage to face these situations in a future that includes Duncan MacLeod - for I can no longer imagine a future that doesn't.

He said that other Immortals will come after him, challenge him to fight - like Brock did. While he didn't put the warning into words, I know a strong possibility exists that someday he might not come back to me after one of these ritual meetings. I will have to live with the anxiety of watching him leave time after time. I will have to live with knowing each time may be the last time I'll see him. I sift my fingers in his hair, and decide that what ever the cost, he's worth paying the price. 

I have no idea how long we stayed like that - a few seconds, a moment, a lifetime, an eternity. Time has no meaning for us, today. 

I drain the last of the wine from my glass, letting the fruity flavor of the Chardonnay roll over my tongue. Now that the glass is empty, I still can't reach the table without disturbing Duncan. His breath brushes the skin of my stomach with slow rhythmic strokes and I wonder if he's fallen asleep.

I'm probably insane, but I feel the pressing need to get rid of the glass ... and more importantly to close the conversation we started before he got up. "Duncan," I say softly, as I scratch my nails on his shoulder with a light touch.

"Mmmm?" He lets the sound escape in one long breath that tickles my stomach.

"Did Tessa ever ... did she ever see you ... take another Immortal's head?"

He rolls onto his back with a low groan, but his eyes are closed and I can't see what he's feeling. "What difference does it make?" he asks. His voice holds a measure of exasperation, but no anger.

"Duncan, I'm trying to understand all this," I say, softly. "Immortality, the Game, the Prize ... beheadings ... it's a bit much to absorb all at once. I'm looking for a reference point."

He opens his eyes, and lets his mouth curve into a smile. He lifts his hand to touch my cheek with a gentle caress. "I guess it is," he says, studying me with questions of his own flickering in the depths of his eyes. "It's easy to forget, when you've lived with it as long as I have. The question is ... can _you_ live with it."

I glance down at the empty wine glass as I consider his question. While I'm not sure _how_ I will live with it ... I know there can be only one answer for me. "Doesn't seem like there's much choice," I say. "This sounds like a package deal. If I want you ... I have to take all the accessories."

I smile as reach over him to set the glass on the table. "And make no mistake, Duncan MacLeod - I want you no matter what comes with the deal."

Reaching over him while making a comment like that is the wrong move. He responds by capturing the peak of my breast in his mouth. He flicks his tongue over my nipple, and I respond with a squeal and a giggle, then promptly drop the glass. It shatters as it hits the floor.

"Now, look what you made me do," I say, laughing.

"Forget it," he says, rolling us both over. Laughing with me, he tucks me under him.

I'm not sure whether he means the glass or the conversation. I manage to free my hand, and I tug his hair gently to get his attention. "Duncan, it's important that I know about Tessa."

He lifts his head and studies me with those soulful brown eyes. They glisten with a sheen of sadness. They shimmer with all the sorrow he's known in his 400 years. My resolve weakens. The last thing I want to do is cause him more pain, yet I know my questions are doing just that - but they need to be asked so I can start building a foundation that will get me through all the difficult moments ahead of me. 

I touch a tendril of hair that droops over his brow. I skim my finger along the line on his cheek where stubble meets smooth skin. I trace the sensuous curve of his full lower lip, and I watch my hand, not his eyes.

He closes them as he sighs, then he lowers his head so I can no longer see see the pain in them. "Yes, once," he says, lifting his head again. A puzzled glow has replaced the pain. "Why?"

I pet his hair with soothing strokes. "You'll think I'm crazy ..."

He laughs, and the sound fills me with delight the way it always does. "It's too late," he says, sitting up again. "Knowing what I am, you want to stay with me - you have to be crazy. Your life will never be the same." He watches my face, waits for my reaction.

Craving the intimacy, I sit to bring myself closer to him. "How many times have you told a woman that in 400 years?" I ask with a smile.

He gazes off at a distant spot beyond my head. "More times than I care to remember," he says softly, then he looks back into my eyes again. "You can't tell your friends about me, you know. You'll have to let them go or think of an explanation for why I'm not getting any older."

"I'll tell them you have a portrait in the attic, like Dorian Gray," I say, giving in to an urge to kiss his shoulder right next to the spot where his hair drifts over his bare skin. The smooth glowing skin of a man who is 30-something ... not 400-something.

I lift my head and rub the tip of my nose against his. "You have become my life," I say. "Whatever I life I had before seems like just a distant memory. Duncan, I love you."

"I know," he says. Easing my head onto his shoulder, he holds me close. He sways slightly, rocking us back and forth. "So why will I think you're crazy and what does it have to do with Tessa?"

I shift away from him because now I feel silly. I shouldn't have brought it up. How can I explain? It's my turn to gaze off into the distance and I take a deep breath hoping to find the right words. "Because I've been talking to her," I whisper, then turn my head to look back at him over my shoulder.

He arches his left eyebrow in a gesture that has become so familiar to me - familiar and endearing. He doesn't believe me, and no doubt he's questioning my sanity.

"I can't explain it," I say. "From the first time I saw her picture, I felt this strange, but strong connection with her. And when you're not around to hear me, I talk to her."

"Does she talk back to you?" he asks with a mischievous grin.

"No, she doesn't talk back to me - I'm not that crazy," I answer, wrinkling my nose to make a face in response to his grin. "But I think she wants someone to take care of you, and I've been trying to convince her it should be me."

His grin settles into a warm smile as he pulls me back into the cradle of his arms. "Oh, yeah," he says.

I can't look into his eyes until I finish what I have to say. I run my finger along the ridge of his collar bone to give myself something to concentrate on. "I figure that if I can convince her of that ... maybe she will help me find the courage to cope with all the changes in my life - maybe she'll help me find the strength to be there when you need me ... like she was."

I lift my eyes to meet his, but I still can't read the emotions hiding behind them. He watches me for a moment, then his mouth curls into a smile. "You really are crazy," he says, tapping my nose with his finger. "But I'm beginning to think that I like crazy women."

"I'm so relieved," I say smiling back. I simply can not resist returning his smile.

He pushes me back down onto the bed. Holding his head above mine, he lets the smile slide back into a grin. "Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?" he asks. 

Eyeing a spot just above my navel, he lowers his head. "Somewhere around here, I think."

With my questions out of the way, the things he is doing with his hands and his mouth are no longer a distraction ... they are a delight, and I let myself melt into the warm luscious sensations. And I no longer worry about our future. I trust that it will take care of itself.

The End


End file.
